


Taming monsters (and inevitably failing)

by Comade



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angry Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Angry Jaskier | Dandelion, Bickering, Drama, Emotionally Repressed, Idiots in Love, Jaskier is a reckless idiot, Jaskier making a (not so human) friend, M/M, Slight Drama, during the dragon hunt, injured jaskier, the group has to watch the bard and the witcher having zero braincell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:08:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22862287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Comade/pseuds/Comade
Summary: “If you're going to kill me, would you maybe consider doing it quickly? With no pain?” Jaskier winced as he scrambled backward a little, despite knowing he had no chance of escaping this beast if it decided to pounce on him. “Aim the jugular, right here, really easy."Alright, so maybe a piece of slate bread wasn't enough to tame a monster, but who could blame him for trying. Boredum had lowered his already non-existant survival instincts, and repressed anger had made him too proud to call for help. He'd rather blame this unfortunate encounter on Geralt. Do not ignore your bard during an entire dragon hunt and expect him to behave safely.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 239
Kudos: 1058





	1. Chapter 1

Jaskier was used to this. He was no stranger to being dismissed by people like some kind of dirt stuck under their shoe. Indifference? Rejection? Disdain? He was well accustomed to them thank you very much. The bard had been forced to get used to them, after all. He was a performer, he fell under the title of distraction, supposed to serve as an amusement, almost dutiful to people's enjoyable night. Which meant he was obviously treated as well as a servant, a jester, and it was common knowledge that respect wasn't the first thing that came into people's mind when they thought of these professions. The bard would be sneered at, insulted, he'd even get bread thrown his way, but he remained composed, unbothered, because these people throwing food at him weren't worthy of even just a pout. Also, with the years Jaskier had come to realize that displeased drunk people throwing bread at him was nothing but a free meal, something he gladly accepted. The drunken people occupying the taverns never managed to even just breach his spirit, because he knew he was above anything they could've thrown his way. He wasn't sitting among them, drinking himself unconscious everyday, and it made him feel good enough to keep on despite the insults, because their opinions just didn't matter to him.

However, Jaskier wasn't one to have a superiority complex. When he performed, he was one with the crowd, not above them, not better than them, just a simple man enjoying himself among the tables and happily becoming one of the drunks. But after? After came the disdain, the superior looks shot towards him when he tried to crack a joke, the nasty remarks thrown around because of his acquaintance with a certain witcher. When he was no longer performing, no longer distracting them from a boring night, Jaskier had no excuse for his exuberent self, not benefiting from the protection that being useful offered him anymore. He was simply disposable, and that's what made him think of most people he performed for as horse shit.

Horse shit. That's what he had thought about those scornful drunken, and that's what the people here probably thought of him, Jaskier bitterly thought.

The problem wasn't that he was treated badly. It was that he was treated badly by people whose opinion mattered. The dwarves sneered, the hunters glared, Geralt ignored, and Yennefer's indifference was probably the best gift she could've made him at the moment. The only ones not berating him were Téa and Béa, held back by their values and overall goodness, but even though he enjoyed chewing their ear off a little, Jaskier tried his best not to get too close to them and abuse of their politeness, because if there was at least two people ready to give him even just an ounce of respect, he'd be more than careful not to destroy it.

* * *

“Have you ever had a song written about you?”

Téa threw him a brief glance over her shoulder, looking mildly annoyed, but the ghost of an amused smirk pulling at the corner of Véa's lips was enough to keep the bard going. As long as they had no murderous glint in their eyes, he was good, and even though he had only known them for a day, the brunet knew he'd never manage to get them anywhere near drawing them swords for him. “I find it hard to believe no one ever asked you to be their muses.” This time, none of them turned around, used to his rambling already. They had been walking for quite a while now, but it was nothing Jaskier couldn't handle. “I must say I'm a little disappointed by my fellows, I mean, how can they overlook such graceful features and still call themselves a bard.” By this time, any man would've been tired, either complaining or slowing down, but Jaskier was used to walking long distances. His feet, which would've already been completely numbed after a few hours of walking a few years ago, now easily went the distance without starting to ache before at least an entire day. “Although, in their defense it is much more remarkable to write about dull, uninspiring things.” Jaskier entirely owed his endurance to the man he had walked alongside for years. Man who wasn't anywhere near his side at the moment, currently brooding alone a few meters ahead of the bard, as he had been for most of the trip. “Like that... that ballad I wrote about Valdo Marx, it was quite, quite successful.” Maybe it was for the best. The brunet wasn't sure if he wanted to walk alongside his witcher when his face bore a much darker brood than what he was used to. It wasn't like Jaskier wasn't used to his mood swings, he had never minded Geralt's silent answers and annoyed glances, but he had gotten way more that day than in the last few months. Plus, knowing it wasn't typical witcher behavior but deliberate rudeness because of his newly found interest in a woman hurt Jaskier a little more than he would've liked to admit.

He felt a curious stare gracing his unfocused face and quickly snapped back to reality, diverting his eyes from Geralt to smile at Véa. He had schooled his features too quickly, flashed a smile too bright, too weak. The bard had never been good at deceiving, but he knew it didn't matter. His suspicions were confirmed when Véa turned back around a second after, not without arching a sceptic eyebrow at him. Jaskier's shoulders slumped a little as he let out a relieved breath.

The bard wet his lips, let his eyes wander around for a second, not even knowing what he was looking for until he noticed a small path going sideways and was compelled to escape for a little bit, even just a minute. “Ladies, I don't know for you but I could definitely eat something else than that stale bread we've been given,” he announced, this time definitely catching the women's attention as they shot him another look over their shoulders, one eyebrow elegantly arched. “Allow me to wander aimlessly into this thicket and retrieve for you a tastier afternoon treat,” he courtly offered them with a dazzling smile. This was all an act and they knew it as much as he did, he was performing, being the bard, but it was just enough to lighten the mood and Jaskier felt a little better knowing Téa and Véa didn't mind his presence as much as they should thanks to his fancy talks.

Humorously bowing his head, Jaskier made a swift turn and walked away from the path and into the thicket with an added bounce to his steps. It felt good to put himself in his performer state of mind. It wasn't like he was faking or putting a mask on, he wasn't lying to anyone since the bard was a significant part of Jaskier. It was considered an act, but it was an act he had created bits by bits over the years, another side of himself he had let settle inside of his brain naturally. The seed had been planted years ago when his fingers had graced a lute for the first time, and had now grown into a fully-developed insufferable but oh so endearing bard.

“It can't be that hard...” The brunet stepped over some bushes, already feeling the knots in his stomach start to uncoil as he heard the noises coming from his group getting further away from him. Quite absurd for someone who didn't handle isolation very well, he always preferred when someone was there to ignore his blathering. “There's got to be some... some berries, maybe a fruit... or an already cooked chicken would be pretty nice,” Jaskier absent-mindedly yakked as he half-heartedly looked around for pretty much anything that'd be enough to please his comrade's palate. Truly anything would do since the stew they had eaten earlier had been one of the most distasteful thing to ever touch his tongue.

At least bringing them some delectable food would make him feel useful, appreciated even, but that was just some wishful thinking. Jaskier didn't need to feel validated anyway. If he had, he wouldn't have traveled with a witcher for years, even less sticked with him through this journey towards a certain death under the flames of a dragon. Anyone with a decent self-esteem would've left after an hour at most, but the brunet was here for inspiration and apparently valued his songs more than himself. It sounded sad said like that, that's why the bard preferred addressing this as devoting himself to art.

“More like devoting myself to my stupid, thick-headed muse...” he mumbled through his barely parted lips as he bent down to take a closer look at a bush that seemed to contain some colorful beads. His eyes went over them quickly before focusing on a weird shadow hiding between some thick foliage. “What is...” He leaned a little closer, then took an abrupt step back, instantly recoiling in surprise when his eyes locked with another pair peering through the leaves, wide and feline, definitely not belonging to a human. A beat of silence went by, but then, driven by his curiosity, the bard stepped forward again, squinting at the small beast hiding in the shadow. Carefully, he brought a hand forward and slowly moved a twig away, allowing a stream of light to hit the creature. The small, innocent cat-like animal blinked at the sudden light blinding him, before focusing again on the man before him, flaring its nostrils at him.

“Oh you adorable...” The creature stepped out of the shadow. “...not so adorable...” It unfolded itself, his spine slowly uncoiling until it was looming dangerously over the bard. “...terrifying monster.” It peered down at him, its bony shoulders hunched over as it casted its shadow over the brunet. Jaskier found himself speechless. He wet his lips, looked away for a second, before pointing towards the bush with a polite smile stretched on his lips. “May I offer you some berries?”

The beast snarled at him. Maybe it wasn't hungry. Or maybe Jaskier seemed tastier than the berries.

The brunet hoped it wasn't the latter.

Given his luck, it probably was.

But for some reasons, instead of acting on basic survival instincts and running away as fast as he could before his insides got ripped out by the enormous claws this monster was bearing, Jaskier stayed still, with his feet firmly grounded. If there was a good moment for him to suddenly take interest in monster knowledge and overall every advice Geralt had ever given him, it certainly wasn't now; and yet, the memory of a crucial information poking in the back of his mind just kept Jaskier from running away. He would be murdered in an instant if the witcher was ever to learn that the bard hadn't fleed in the face of danger because of some random knowledge he had one day thrown over his shoulder. In his defense, it wasn't the bard's fault: the man should've known what he said never fell on deaf ears. Not only did Jaskier preciously keep every piece of information he could get for his songs, but he was strangely interested in monsters random facts. So, of course, when he saw what at first appeared to be an adorable little feline slowly unrolling its emaciated body to tower over him, Jaskier's first instinct was to flee; but when he saw the ribs poking out from under the poor beast's skin, he froze for a second, and a faint memory, deep inside his mind, screamed at him that Hiri-something were supposedly harmless.

The bard didn't know what made him act first, the knowledge reaching his brain or sheer recklessness taking hold of it, but he didn't run away, and stayed put as he slowly brought a hand to his pocket. The beast's eyes flickered towards the movement before focusing back on his face, and snarled, obviously not trusting whatever plan the foolish man in front of him had in mind. Lifting up his other hand in front of him innocently, as if the animal could understand, the bard perked up when his fingers met a rough texture in his pocket, and, as carefully as possible, he slowly pulled his hand out, now holding a piece of bread. The monster's nostrils flared, its ears twitched, it bared his teeth, hissed, and before Jaskier could even throw it the food, it leapt forward and attacked, slashing the brunet's upper arm.

The bard had to stifle a scream as he felt the claws easily digging into his doublet and lacerating his skin. He hit the ground in a thud and instinctively brought a hand to his wound, at first wanting to put pressure on him but then barely daring to touch it, his shaking hand hovering hesitantly over the injury. Blood was already dripping down his arm but at least the pain had already subdued into a burning sensation. Realizing that he had tightly shut his eyes in pain, and that it probably wasn't the best defense technique, Jaskier opened his eyes. When he had been expecting claws again, maybe even death if he was truly unlucky, the brunet was surprised to find none of that, met by a dusty path and clear blue sky. He furrowed his eyebrows and looked around him hastily, wondering if the beast had fleed, when his glance fell upon the creature's back, only a few feet away from him on his right. It was crouching down on its four limbs, eating the bread the brunet had dropped when claws had torn through his skin. It had worked. The creature truly had been hungry.

The brunet couldn't stop himself from perking up at the sight, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. It had been a dangerous game to play, and Jaskier knew he surely didn't deserve to get out of this alive just for taking the risk, but the stakes didn't matter enough to smother the swelling pride inside of the bard's belly, because damn it, he had managed to calm things down without resorting to calling out for help, and he had done it all on his own. It had been a struggle to stifle the pained scream that had tried to crawl up his throat, but it was definitely worth it. The bard had refused to alert the others only for them to find out that he had acted like an idiot again, and for once in his life, he had been right to do it.

Jaskier stared at the creature for a few more seconds, way too pleased with himself to think about putting some distance between himself and the threat, until his survival instincts caught up with him again. He then slowly started to back away, waiting to reach a reasonable distance so he could bounce to his feet and run away. Unfortunately, and because destiny was apparently bored and not very much pleased with seeing him successful, the creature's ears twitched, as if picking on the movement happening behind its back, and slowly started to turn around. Jaskier froze, and was once again forced to wait, watching the feline creature warily.

The Hiri-something stayed on its four limbs this time as it slowly approached the brunet, and he couldn't help but think it was because it wanted to be on eye-level before pouncing at him. Even though he was quite sure he remembered Geralt telling him these things were supposedly harmless when not threatened, Jaskier couldn't help but think he was gonna die right there and then, only because he had been too proud to call for the others.

“If you're going to kill me, would you maybe consider doing it quickly? With no pain?” Jaskier winced as he scrambled backward a little, despite knowing he had no chance of escaping this beast if it decided to pounce on him. “Aim the jugular, right here, really easy,” he added as he slightly lifted his chin as he vaguely waved his hand in the direction of what was supposedly his jugular, which was most certainly not right. 

The Hiri-- was it Hirikka? Was it even Hiri to begin with? It probably wasn't, but it felt like it began with Hiri, except that he definitely looked like he was name something more brutal, like Gourat or... or Geralt. And well, at the moment “Geralt” didn't seem to want to slash his jugular, which was a surprise. It blinked at Jaskier, as if it could understand his abnormal demand, and chose to back away a little barely one feet away from the brunet, before lowering its backside, not quite sitting but at least not looking like he was anywhere near pouncing at the bard anymore.

Jaskier gaped at him for a few seconds, this time truly speechless, or maybe just silent for a few seconds since it was the best he could do. The Hiri stared back at him for a while, huffed in annoyance and tilted its muzzle to motion towards Jaskier's pocket from which he had fished the piece of bread. “You--” the bard's voice came out in a yelp and his eyes kept flickering from the creature to his pocket. “You want more food?” he resumed, almost sounding offended. “Well I'm sorry but I'll have you know I don't carry sacks of bread around,” the brunet then snorted, probably getting a little too confident when the creature he was addressing had the capacity to slaughter him in one move. Something it definitely contemplated as it arched its back angrily, giving Jaskier a warning hiss. “I can come back with more! But I must warn you, it'll be the stalest bread I can find, I'm not keen on being threatened.”

Instead of attacking or leaving, the only two expected responses from a monster, Jaskier saw the feline's eyes flicker to his wounded arm before flaring its nostrils at it, as if trying to identify what was going on with his limb. “Yeah, that's my blood,” the brunet informed him bitterly. “I must thank you for that. You could've just waited for me to drop the food, you bastard.” Seeing that he wasn't anywhere near being helpful, the beast gave him a long deadpan look that felt way too human to be comfortable before turning around and promptly leaving.

Jaskier huffed, squinting his eyes at the retreating form. He had no idea what that thing's name was, but given its manners, it could definitely share Geralt's.


	2. Chapter 2

Making his way back to the group unnoticed had strangely been easier than what Jaskier had expected. The brunet had simply walked up the hillock without using the path, slightly hidden by the bushes and long grass, and then when he had reach the camp, he had peeked at the place from behind a tree to localize the only people who could've helped him with his wound without asking any question: Téa and Véa. The two were at the back of the camp, sitting on some logs as they unpacked some belongings. They were far, but the brunet could easily reach them by skirting around the camp instead of crossing it, which would take longer but would be safer. There was no way he could've crossed the camp without stumbling upon Geralt anyway, and even if the witcher hadn't been paying a lot of attention to him lately, he would never ignore the strong smell of blood coming from his arm. Satisfied with his plan, the brunet was about to start quietly walking around the camp again when he was rudely interrupted.

“Jaskier!” a familiar voice suddenly boomed just from several feet away.

The bard's heart leapt inside his chest, and he dived behind a bush, scratching his knees in the process. He stayed down for a few seconds, eyes wide and heart erratically beating inside his chest, until he gathered the courage to peer through the foliage. The witcher was standing at the edge of the camp, looking down at the path they had just climbed with furrowed eyebrows. It was just his luck that all of the sudden Geralt was looking for him. Sure, Jaskier had basically been begging for attention for hours now, but he always was and the witcher usually didn't give in. Maybe it meant that the man was going soft on him, or that the bard had screwed up once again and was about to get his ass handed to him. The brunet already knew which one it was, which motivated him even more to hide himself and sneak through the camp.

Usually, the witcher would've already caught a whiff of his scent and it would've been over for Jaskier. If the brunet was close enough to hear him, then Geralt's senses could definitely catch on his smell, but fortunately, the pack of sweating men working to set up the camp around the witcher was enough to cover the bard's tracks, even the strong smell of blood that had been trailing behind him. For the first time of the day, Jaskier considered himself lucky to be surrounded by these people and quickly ducked behind the bush again when he saw Geralt's glance abruptly flicker towards him. Careful not to brush against the foliage beside him, the brunet lowered himself and started crawling away, miraculously managing to skirt the camp without being noticed. Jaskier would've taken some pride in his spy skills if, by the time he arrived to where he had first localized the women, these two hadn't vanished into thin air, leaving two empty logs behind them. Jaskier cursed as he leaned backwards a little, adjusting into a more comfortable crouched down position. The two women were gone, the soft burn of his wound had morphed to a searing pain throbbing through his limb every two seconds, and now the bard had absolutely no idea what to do. He certainly couldn't take care of this alone because everything he would've needed to clean his wound was safely tucked inside Geralt's saddlebag. Needless to say, the brunet would've rather go ask a complete stranger for help than admit to his friend that yes, he had been left unsupervised for only one afternoon and yes, that had been enough for him to get his arm almost ripped off. Once again, Jaskier would've liked to clarify that he wasn't to be blamed. Never let a bard without any supervision, otherwise they couldn't be held accountable for their actions.

“What exactly are you doing here, bard?” a voice suddenly asked from behind him, close, way too close.

“Oh god I--” the brunet yelped as he whipped around and stumbled backwards, his arse softly landing on a pile of leaves. Téa was at his level, as if she had crouched down too to catch sight of what he had been peering at; while Véa stood beside her, arms crossed, face closed. “Oh, oh god, please don't ever do that again,” Jaskier bleated, one hand pressed flat against his chest as if he was trying to calm down the erratic beating of his heart. “You're-- you're really good at the sneaking around and stuff but if you want me to live through this hunt, please, never again, I-- phew,” he ended with a sigh, his head tilted towards as he tried to catch his breath.

Véa's eyes flickered to the bard's arm and her eyebrows instantly furrowed. She stepped forward and made a move to grab it, but the brunet was quicker and dodged before she could put her hand around his arm. The woman scowled at him, but still stepped back, and then expectedly asked him what had happened to him, clearly not patient enough to wait for the man to regain his composure. That one still found it wise to test her tolerance though, and a beat of silence settled between them, only disrupted by the rummaging of the group a few feet away. When his heartbeat had finally gone back to a steady rhythm, Jaskier looked back at the two women, wet his lips, lifted a hand, ready to deceive and offer them his best lie.

“Well, see, I was going through the thicket and--” he met Téa's eyes, slowed down, felt a wave of shame wash over him. He couldn't lie. Not to them. They were the only one who had paid him even just a little bit of attention, who had treated him as equal. The brunet shook his head, before starting again. “Look, I don't think I can lie to you. I hold a little too much respect towards you both, which is surprising because respect hasn't always been my strong suit,” Jaskier found himself wandering away from the main subject once again and cut himself mid-sentence, before resuming. “So, can we please leave it at that?” his voice was soft, his tone ever-so-slightly pleading. “I swear it was nothing important.”

The two women exchanged a glance, as if consulting, and then Téa was the first to look back at Jaskier, simply nodding. Unlike her friend, Véa seemed a little more vexed by the situation, her arms once again crossed against her chest, but she walked away to get some bandages nonetheless. While she was away, Téa asked Jaskier if he was feeling light-headed or dizzy, making the bard realize just how competent in everything the two warriors were. He felt as if he had gone to an healer as the warrior's eyes scrutinized him, looking for any sign of dehydration or shock.

Téa was back quickly with a bag undoubtedly full of the strict necessary to cover up an injury. She crouched down beside them and fished out some bandages from the bag before tossing it at her friend. That one already had a knife in hand, ready to cut it while the other disinfected the wound. Watching Téa pulling a bottle out of the bag, Jaskier was about to at least thank them, but was cut as soon as he opened his mouth.

“Bards are such idiots,” Téa grumbled as she uncorked the bottle with her teeth, her other hand maintaining the brunet's arm still. “Incapable of keeping safe,” she then added before pouring some strong alcohol onto the wound. Jaskier winced at the stinging pain, but kept his mouth shut. Alright, he thought, it probably wasn't the right time for gratitude, then.

* * *

“My subjects will be the luckiest serfs in all the lands,” the knight seemingly called Eyck boasted. Or was it Eyr? “Especially with the beautiful Yennefer as my mage.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes and tried to refocus himself on what he was writing. He didn't even have something specific in mind, he had just fished his quill and notebook out of his bag, scribbling whatever would come to him. It was like a shield for him for when he was feeling uncomfortable or awkward, and here, sitting among those people talking about things that in no way concerned Jaskier, the bard was definitely not feeling in his element.

The brunet couldn't complain that much though, because he was at least sitting on a log next to the witcher, and weirdly, he hadn't had to annoy his friend for it. The space beside the man had already been empty when Jaskier had arrived, and even though Geralt wasn't nicely inviting him to sit but more like glaring at him for disappearing on him earlier, the brunet had felt a spike of warmth in his stomach as he had gone to sit beside him. That was the nicest thing about being the man's travel companion. It didn't occur often, but every once in a while, Jaskier would get an unexpected tiny ammount of attention, and it felt like a privilege with someone like Geralt. The privilege of being under the man's wing, probably. That feeling didn't last, though, and Geralt was quickly back to not-so-subtly giving every ounce of his attention to Yennefer all the while staring at the apple he was cutting. Although, it was probably for the best when Jaskier's bandage created a barely visible lump under his doublet. To hide the smell of blood, the brunet had asked Vea to bandage it two times, and even though she had arched an eyebrow at him, immediately understanding who he was trying to hide it from and wondering why, she had remembered his earlier plead not to ask any question, and had complied without any remark.

“How would you like to serve me tonight, witch?”

“Careful, Boholt,” Geralt advised, all of the sudden more chivalrous than he had ever been in ten years.

Jaskier dramatically rolled his eyes again, and added some colorful words to his writing. Gosh could the witcher be annoying when he was interested in someone. Maybe he shouldn't have hidden his injury: come back to the camp parading, his arm lifted up to put his wound on display, ready to tell everyone he had put himself in harm's way to protect the camp from a monster. And sure, someone would've taken off after the Hirithing but some sacrifices needed to be made sometimes. Alright, no, he would never have done that, Jaskier thought as he shook his head, but damn would it have been the recipe for a good song. Although, the bard still had enough material without lying. Injury or not, he did tame a beast, after all. Was it nearly enough to write an heroic song, though? Could he even remember precisely what the beast looked like? Despite facing it for a few minutes, the only thing Jaskier could picture crystal clear in his head were his wide, feline eyes and sharp claws. He had been too frightened at the moment to correctly memorize its features.

“So, the Witcher wants to play knight too, hm?”

The brunet threw a quick look around him as he tucked his quill and notebook safely in his waistband. His eyes quickly landed upon another two apples on Geralt's saddlebag, right at his feet, one probably kept aside for Roach. Jaskier's eyes flickered back to the witcher's face, and seeing that he was now looking at Boholt, arguing that Yennefer could certainly kill him with her own hand, the bard took up the opportunity to discreetly snatch one apple. The movement didn't seem to divert Geralt's attention, and, not wanting to push his luck, Jaskier immediately bounced to his feet, averting whoever would be listening that he was going to be right back. The bard then happily strode away, proud of himself for his subtlety and completely unaware of the witcher's eyes on his back, slightly amused by his friend's not-so-discreet act of thievery.

It took him a few minutes to join the place where he had been this afternoon since this time he was at least able to go down the path instead of using the side of the hillock. As soon as he reached the right thicket, though, Jaskier started wondering what he was doing. He scanned his surroundings, lifted twigs to look into some bushes, spun around. The place was deadly quiet, there was no rustling of leaves, not even the crisp sound of a twig being crushed under a paw. Jaskier sighed, let his head loll forward in defeat. Why would the beast still be here? He had given him food, and even though he had sworn he'd bring more, there was no chance the monster had somehow understood him. The brunet was too busy reprimanding himself, wondering what had crossed his mind, to notice the shifting shadow looming over him. The brunet shook his head, absent-mindedly digging into the apple's skin, and he was about to leave when he heard a weird huffing sound coming from behind him. Only then did he notice the shadow extending in front of him. His heart dropped down to the pit of his stomach, and after this afternoon, he probably wasn't supposed to be scared anymore, but having already encountered the creature was no comfort for him as he felt its warm breath against the back of his head.

More careful than ever, Jaskier slowly spun around and offered the Hirithing his most dazzling smile. “Well, hello again,” he chirped, his voice an octave too high to be truly believable. The beast flared its nostrils, and this time, Jaskier was shrewd enough to quickly show him what he wanted, lifting his hand up to present the apple as an offering. His eyebrows shot up in astonishment when the cat-like creature seemed to perk up at the sight of it, its ears twitching. “See!” the brunet beamed, already feeling safer, his recklessness once again taking over. “I told you I'd be back,” he grinned, before taking a few step back to throw the apple at the beast's feet. He had definitely learned a lesson or two about safety distances this afternoon. The fruit hit the ground, rolled a little but came to a stop halfway between them.

The creature was lowered onto its four limbs seemingly ready to pounce, but this time, instead of lunging at the apple like it had earlier, the beast's eyes flickered back to Jaskier, unsure. The bard was surprised to see this sudden change of behavior, and realized that it must have looked a awful lot like a trap. Lifting his two hands in front of him innocently, the brunet took a tiny step back, which seemed to be enough since, as soon as he did, the Hiri moved and was tearing the apple apart with its teeth in a matter of seconds. “Wow, that are...” Jaskier crouched down to have a better look of his new source of inspiration. “that are some sharp teeth... and that could've been my head,” he then winced, one finger uncomfortably pulling at his collar as he imagined a worst scenario of that afternoon. The thing stopped gnawing on what was left of the fruit to throw a brief glance towards the brunet, his eyes almost looking unimpressed. He seemed a little too clever for a creature, just like Roach seemed a little too human to just be a mare.

“Don't give me these eyes,” Jaskier admonished it, scrunching up his nose in disapproval. “It makes you look a little too much like my brother, and trust me, one is enough,” he then added as he shifted from his crouched down position to sit down in the tall grass, his ankles starting to feel sore. “Yeah, you definitely have the same eyes. He'd give me the exact same look when I'd be coming home without food, what a bastard,” the brunet absent-mindedly began picking at the grass, completely forgetting to observe the creature's features for his song as he started prattling. “Maybe I should call you Bastard number two? Since I still have no idea what you are supposed to be. Would that offend you? I mean, you did claw my arm.” Bastard number two actually stopped munching at that, his wide eyes locking with Jaskier's. He definitely did not look guilty enough for the bard's liking. “But what if people think that since you're Bastard number two, I'm bastard number one? I can't have that, they already think I'm an insufferable arse...”

Bastard number two was now fully staring at him, giving him a painful deadpan look. “I'll think about it,” the brunet muttered, not liking a lot how the animal's behavior was a flawless replica of Geralt's. The beast shook his head before diving back and gulping down the last pieces of the destroyed apple, as Jaskier watched it closely. Then, instead of turning around and promptly leaving, it diverted its attention towards Jaskier again. The brunet gulped as the animal started swiftly moving towards him with a feline grace, but, knowing there was nothing he could do except trust it not to bite the hand that fed it, the bard remained still. Time seemed to slow down as the beast got nearer, and all the brunet could do was watch as the beast stopped, not even a foot away from him. Jaskier's breath got caught in his throat when the creature dipped his head towards his arm, but then, instead of baring its teeth at him, it nudged the man's hand with its head.

Jaskier's heart skipped a beat, and if at first his instincts screamed at him to take his hand back, he found himself incapable of moving away, letting the beast brush his head against the palm of his hand. The brunet was so surprised he found himself choking on his words. “I-- I don't have any more food, sorry.” Bastard number two nudged his hand again, a little more abruptly this time, and then huffed at Jaskier. He looked up and met the man's wide, surprised eyes. They shared a long look and Jaskier had to keep himself from letting his eyes wander onto the creature's face, oddly fascinated. He had never seen a creature from this close. Then, without a warning, the beast huffed again and skirted around Jaskier, not without forcefully bumping into the man's shoulder.

The bard softly chortled to himself as he shook his head. “Bastard,” he muttered, before getting up, knowing Geralt was prone to get annoyed when he disappeared without any reason for an extended period of time.

As he walked back to the camp, Jaskier heard some groans coming from bushes and stopped in his tracks, one eyebrow arched in curiosity as he tried to peer at what was happening. “Everything's alright?” he called out to whoever was hiding. A weak voice, Eyck's, if Jaskier wasn't mistaken, answered that everything was fine but that he'd be grateful if the man could wait for him to help him walk back to the camp. Jaskier had to keep himself from groaning out loud, wondering why he hadn't minded his own business.

Five minutes later, he was walking back to the camp next to a sick-looking knight who could barely stand on his two feet. His nerves were running thin, tired of slowing down every two steps because Eyck couldn't keep up, but the bard immediately perked up at the sight of a very angry-looking witcher waiting for him by the camp fire. “Where were you?”

“Well, I needed to attend to some personal, biological needs, and on my way back I stumbled upon this gentleman who seemed ready to drop dead in the middle of the forest,” the brunet explained as he started rummaging through Geralt's saddlebag to find his own bedroll. “Not to brag but he probably wouldn't be with us if I hadn't been there, not that it would've been a great loss, though...” he quietly added the last part to himself, knowing well the witcher would hear him anyway.

And he had been right, given the barely perceptible smirk pulling at the corner of Geralt's lips. Jaskier tried to ignore the pride swelling in his belly as he started setting down his bedroll, pride instantly replaced by pure and utter joy when he saw another bedroll being placed right beside his. At that instant, the brunet pretty much felt like he was about to implode from having too many strong feelings. Instead of it, though, he simply looked up at the man standing beside him, a silent question conveyed by one arched eyebrow. “I don't trust these people,” Geralt simply grunted without sparing him a glance. “It's safer for you to sleep next to me, wouldn't want one of them slitting your throat in your sleep because you managed to insult them today.”

The bard was lucky his friend wasn't looking at him, because he would've definitely hit him upon meeting his disbelieving eyes. Deciding for once to be wise, Jaskier didn't comment on it and laid down on his bedroll, ready to enjoy a good night of sleep next to his travail companion, just like the good old days.

And he did spend a peaceful night. The air was quite chilly but they were close enough to the fire not to feel any of it. There was no wind to disrupt their rest, and even the animals living within these woods seemed to have decided to be merciful, staying oddly quiet during most of it. Jaskier had inched closer to Geralt from hour to hour, maybe during his sleep, probably not, though ; but the witcher hadn't inched away and that was the most important part. Their arms were touching, and Jaskier swiftly ignored the pathetic aspect of this to fully enjoy the warmth against his skin, lulling him into a blissful sleep.

This peaceful night was the reason why no word could compare to his anger when he got awoken in the morning by the most irritating scream to exist. It was probably also the reason why Jaskier was selfishly ready to go back to sleep without caring about that person's fate, until that one yelled a few words, few words among which the bard's ears easily caught on one.

 _Monster_.


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier had probably never gotten to his feet so quickly, and if Geralt had still been laying next to him, he would've never heard the end of it. He didn't know what drove him to react so quickly, what inside of his brain made the idea of Bastard number two being in danger shoot him right into action. Maybe it was the fact that he had tamed him and he had done it on his own, he had almost started to bond with the creature, and it was an achievement he was not ready to let go. Jaskier almost felt responsible of the monster now, which was quite ridiculous knowing that he was the travel companion of a witcher.

He didn't even take time to look around once he was on his feet and ignored the wave of dizziness provoked by standing up too fast in favor of darting towards the sounds of voices and steel. A crowd had gathered on the edge of the camp, creating a semicircle around a threat, a monster, and undoubtedly Bastard number two. As soon as Jaskier reached them, he entered the horde, jostling and squeezing through the people, not even acknowledging his comrades' glares as he forced his way through the mass. When he finally got through, stumbling into the space that had been left around the threat, Jaskier felt his heart skip a beat, his eyes immediately landing on the sword Eyck had just hauled from its sheath. It was directly pointed towards a creature's neck to keep it at distance, creature who's familiar eyes flickered towards Jaskier, making his heart dropped further into the pit of his stomach if it even was possible. It was bearing an offensive stance, ready to pounce, there was no way the brunet could convince anyone it was actually harmless, especially since he held that information from an old, blurry memory. Jaskier opened his mouth, but no word came out. He found himself speechless. When he needed his voice the most, the day where his sharp wit was tragically vital to another being, the bard's mind became blank, reducing him to nothing.

Eyck drew his arm back, ready to strike, and panic managed to tear a plead from Jaskier's throat. “No, don't!!” he yelped as he instinctively stepped forward, holding out a hand.

The knight instantly froze, his arm still hovering in the air. Luckily enough, he had barely started to draw back his sword and it hadn't been enough to trigger a response from the beast, who was still warily staring at him, preparing itself to lunge at its attacker. Visibly irritated, Eyck shot a look towards Jaskier from the corners of his eyes. “Why shouldn't I, bard?” the knight retaliated, giving him one chance before going through with it.

Jaskier gaped at him for an instant, closed his mouth, looked around. They were all staring at him, everyone but Geralt who was god knows where, and god, Jaskier was already nothing more than a bard among warriors, a mortal among superior species, and yet, he had never felt more helpless than until that very moment. “It-- it's not...” His throat was suddenly very dry and his mind was berating him, repeating the same words over and over, useless, weak, and there was nothing he could say, nothing he could do to save Bastard.

Fortunately for him, Geralt was suddenly here, as always appearing at the exact time where he was needed the most. Here to make up for his stupid decisions, his lack of competence and unexpected lack of wit. “It's a Hirikka,” the witcher stepped in, drawing everyone's attention away from the beast. Eyck's eyes, though, never left the creature, just as his hand remained firmly clenched around the hilt of his sword. “It's probably starving. Sheathe your weapons,” Geralt then added with a stonier tone, his knowledge morphing into an order when he noticed the knight's stubbornness. For once, the witcher was using calculated words whilst all the bard had been able to articulate earlier were short, simple orders.

Maybe the knight was deaf, or just blinded by a feverish need of glory. Either way, something led that idiot of a man to dismiss the witcher, and without even sparing the man a glance, he drew back his sword, and charged at an immobile, harmless creature. But when for once, the witcher wasn't enough, something strange occurred. Something that had never been needed before: a surge of bravery ran through the bard's body, and Jaskier felt himself moving before he even realized what was happening.

Without any second thought, as the sword went down on Bastard number two, Jaskier leapt forward and put himself between the two as a poor attempt to stop Eyck from harming the creature. Maybe it was because he had completely lost his mind, or maybe because this monster was the closest thing he had to a friend at the moment, Jaskier couldn't decide on which option was the most pathetic. No matter the reason, he definitely had a bit of regret when a sword came slashing across his side, easily tearing his doublet and slicing through his skin. This time, the bard didn't bother to stifle his scream as a searing pain shot through his body, his eyes shut tight. He heard some shuffling around him, a furious shout, sword being drawn, but especially an animalistic roar coming from behind him. That roar seemed to make him snap out of it, and Jaskier immediately reopened his eyes to whip around, not even bothering to look at the man who had just cut through his arm. Bastard number two had shifted and was now in an offensive stance, his eyes focused on the knight behind the brunet as his nostrils flared at the smell of blood. Jaskier instantly shook his head, waving his arms out frantically, “No, go away!” the beast seemed to snap out of his trance, his eyes flickering back to the burnet with a hint of bewilderment in it. “Go away Bast, leave!” the bard repeated, his tone almost pleading.

A wave of relief swept through him when the monster finally backed away a little, before spinning around and promptly taking off. A smile crept up the brunet's face as he watched the retreating form disappearing into some bushes. Only then, was the bard harshly reminded of the blood pouring down his arm by a hand tightly gripping his shoulder. “Why would you spare its life?!” Eyck seethed as he forcefully turned Jaskier around to face him. The bard tried to shove his hand away in vain, before noticing that his sword had been thrown across the camp. Eyck glowered at him for the attempt at getting free from his hold and simply kept on with his irritating chivalrous tone. “It will come back and--” he started chiding before being brutally pulled away from Jaskier by a fuming witcher.

“Do not touch him,” Geralt snarled at him, effectively making the knight step back. “You're already lucky I didn't draw my sword on you for injuring him, do not push it.”

The bard would've usually perked up at these words, enjoying the protective side of Geralt as much as he could when it rarely came up, but at the moment, Jaskier wasn't entirely focused on his surroundings anymore. He had already lived through worse injuries, though. A nekker gnawing at his leg as it pulled him underground; a shot of poisonous venom landing on his forearm from an archespore that had managed to go unnoticed in a swamp; an angry witcher shoving him away from harm's way and sending him crashing directly into a rock, head first; hell, even the Hirikka clawing at his arm was probably more dangerous in terms of infection. And yet, a gashing wound a little below his shoulder, just above a still burning wound from the day before, was enough for Jaskier to feel his knees wobble from under him, getting a little light-headed as if his brain was tired of handling the pain and trying to knock him out.

A hand came to lay on his lower back, steadying him, but it quickly wasn't enough to help him support his weight and Geralt snaked an arm around his waist, pulling him to his side. Jaskier showed no resistance, his head almost lolling to the side with the momentum. He straightened up immediately and blinked, looking around as he tried to regain composure. Then he felt another wave of pain shoot through his arm and temptation became too overwhelming, he slowly dragged his gaze towards the blood oozing out of the arm and-- oh. So that was why it was more painful than the claws, Jaskier thought, as he gaped at the huge gash in his arm. Darkness started seeping at the edges of his vision as he stared at the red beads soaking up his torn sleeve, and at that point Geralt was essentially carrying him, his friend dangerously teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. With an arm still wrapped around the bard's waist, Geralt shook him a little, asking him if he could stand on his own. Jaskier nodded, but his head was a little too wobbly to be believable and the witcher tightened his hold on him.

With a sigh, Geralt turned around, shooting daggers at the man who had swung his sword around a little too carelessly. That one had his blade back in hand, and the witcher felt a growl crawl up his throat at the sight. He unconsciously clenched his fists, his attention now completely diverted from Jaskier, but then Yennefer stepped in front of Eyck, gently eased the sword out of his hand as she threw a cautionary glance towards Geralt over her shoulder. Instead of being angered by their proximity or glowering at the knight, the witcher pulled his gaze away from them with indifference, putting his attention back on Jaskier as he told him he'd probably need some stitches. The bard was barely listening anyway, too busy staring at Yennefer to notice how his voice sounded uncharacteristically thick with concern. Maybe his mind was eager for a distraction or maybe he just had a terrible sense of priorities, either way, Jaskier couldn't help but wander about what was going on in the sorceress's mind. Yennefer was probably standing by that poor excuse of a man solely because she could make good use of him. For what, Jaskier didn't know yet, but there had to be a reason. Or at least he hoped so. There was no way Yennefer was actually settling for that idiot. Even though Jaskier held a strong disliking towards the woman, he knew that she deserved better than this. She was Yennefer of Vengerberg after all.

“Jaskier?”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard what you said you--” the bard stopped waving his hand dismissively at Geralt to ponder for a second, caught in his own lie.

“...need to patch you up,” Geralt filled in for him, already pulling him along to exit the semicircle, not without bumping into Eyck's shoulder in the process.

“Yeah, that,” Jaskier conceded as he followed him to a log, before something clicked in his mind. His eyes flickered to his other arm, the arm Geralt wasn't gripping, the arm with blood gushing out of his fresh wound, and the one with bandages covering up his old one. “I don't--” he started off, before being cut by Geralt as that one made him sit on the log. “I don't think I need stitches, maybe I just need to air it out a little bit, let it breathe, you know?”

Geralt's eyebrows furrowed even deeper and oh, oh he was very much not amused. Without listening to his friend's wish, he moved the cut on his sleeve a little to examine the wound, his lips quickly turning into a frown. Jaskier stopped breathing for a few seconds, almost certain he was about to get caught, but then the witcher let go of his clothing and leaned back, his scorn even colder than before. He shook his head and got up, about to fetch the needle and thread in his saddlebag. Jaskier let out a relieved breath, knowing he'd have enough time to vanish as the witcher went to get the supplies. But then there were no noises of fading footsteps and the silhouette he could see from the corner of his eyes was definitely not walking away. Intrigued, Jaskier looked up and then Geralt's eyes were on his doublet, all of the sudden he was asking him what that bandage under his clothes was, and the way Jaskier's brain kept repeating _shit, fuck, no, shit_ wasn't really helping.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, his eyes still glued to his bandage, practically glowing with anger.

Jaskier shifted uncomfortably under his glare, before readjusting his sleeve to hide it, regaining some composure. “It's...” he started off confidently, ready to offer the witcher his best lie, but once again, found no strength in himself to lie to the face of a man he put so much trust in. The brunet sighed, adverting his glance. “I already ran into this creature. Yesterday.” He could feel the witcher tense up from where he was sitting, and when he dragged his gaze back on Geralt, the man was indeed glaring at him, probably once again infuriated by his bard's capacity of putting himself in troubles. It was that very same lack of instincts that made Jaskier speak up again, with a much more confident tone and a sly smile playing on his lips.

“...His name is Bast, if you'd like to know--”

“I don't give a fuck about its name!” Geralt interrupted him, instantly making the brunet's smile falter. “What the hell were you thinking?!”

Jaskier had seen Geralt furious quite a couple times. He was used to it. After all, he had already managed to scare off a prey before the witcher could hunt it for dinner, anger a mayor to the point of losing a contract, lost a couple coins, hell, he even had been responsible for some injuries on Geralt because he was incapable of obeying to simple orders and lie low. That look though, the glowing amber eyes and clenched jaw, he had rarely witnessed it, simply because Jaskier was loyal and put all of his trust in Geralt. Everything wrong he did, he came clean with it, apologized, never lied and often did it while trying to help Geralt. The bandage ornamenting the bard's arm was a whole different story. Without meaning any harm, the bard had lied by omission, and where there was a lie, there was no trust. Without that trust, Jaskier benefited from no privilege, and there was no escaping the witcher's wrath.

The bard felt himself under his glare. Still, he refused to back down and stood up too, his stance outwardly defensive. “Well, it's not like I was chasing after it!” he snapped. His furrowed eyebrow and offended tone were clearly not enough to cover the shame growing in the pit of his stomach, and his voice shortly started growing fainter under the witcher's unfaltering scowl. “I just happened to stumble upon him and well...”

“Well?” Geralt pushed him to continue, sounding a little more calm but his voice still cold.

“And he didn't attack me, I mean, at first it seemed like he was about to, but he didn't, which isn't really a surprise for you because well, if he did I wouldn't be there to tell the tale, would I?”

Geralt clenched his jaw and stared back, clearly not willing to partake in that trivial exchange Jaskier was trying to settle.

“And then!” the bard quickly followed up, filling up the blanks after realizing that maybe he didn't want Geralt to answer his rhetorical questions at the moment. “Then, my wonderful brain snapped out of it and brought back a wonderful piece of memory, memory where you happened to tell me these things weren't dangerous as long as they weren't starving! My acute vision noticed that the poor thing was, in fact, starving, so I gave him some bread and then he--”

“It, Jaskier. It,” Geralt corrected him stiffly.

“And then he,” the bard repeated, putting emphasis on the pronoun because Geralt could go to hell, Jaskier had made exactly one friend during this hunt and he was not about to talk about him as if he was an object, “let me go.”

Geralt arched an eyebrow and threw a sceptic glance towards the now hidden bandages creating a lump under his sleeve. Jaskier pursed his lips, and resumed. “And what if he did slash my arm when I handed him the bread, Geralt? No one is perfect, you should know that well since, my friend, your handsome figure does not always make up for your behavioral issues,” he ended that statement with his chin high, refusing to back down, and when he expected the witcher to growl, even maybe snarl at him, that one did nothing of it and frowned at Jaskier for a few more seconds before turning his back to him and leaving.

Jaskier could've left it at that. Spare the witcher from his presence and leave him go blow off some steam alone, search for Téa and ask her to stitch him up, eventually run into Geralt again and talk as if nothing had happened. But he wouldn't have been the insufferable bard he was known to be, then. It may have been loyalty, or plain foolishness, or probably a little bit of both, but the brunet immediately strode after him, as if the idea of letting him stomp off without resolving their issues hadn't even grazed his mind. “Come Geralt, what did I even do wrong??” he whined, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. “I tamed him!”

Unlike most times, Geralt didn't even put up with the bard's bleats for more than a second and stopped dead in his tracks, whipping around to face him with a disapproving scowl on his features. “Putting yourself in danger when I was here was one thing, Jaskier,” he chided, his voice suddenly too steady, too calm, disappointment dripping from his words. “but now you try to fight monsters on your own??”

“I wasn't trying to--”

“Then what were you trying to do?!” Geralt exploded, all of the sudden opening the dam and letting out everything he had contained within himself on way too many opportunities before. Jaskier recoiled a little bit, instinctively taking a step back. “You are not a witcher, for fuck's sake!”

Jaskier felt a lump rise in his throat but ignored it. He knew he should be the one to walk away, now that he had kept Geralt from doing so, he had to be the one to put an end to this argument before too much damage could be done, too many ties cut. He knew, and yet, the bard still retaliated. “Oh trust me, I'm aware,” he spat at him, his words bitter and unwillingly resentful.

There were now dozens of eyes on them. If the others' attention hadn't been drawn by the sword-related incident earlier, Geralt's shout had definitely been enough to pull their gazes on them. Despite the burning stares, none of them paid mind to the audience, though, completely caught up in the argument. Jaskier had even forgotten about his gaping wound, letting the blood soak his sleeve and drip from his fingers. But then someone whispered and Geralt's eyes were suddenly on the small number of people gathered around. He gritted his teeth, flickered his attention back towards Jaskier, and threw him a careless “You should've called for help,” as if it could end the argument. He definitely didn't know Jaskier well, and the bard had opened his mouth again before the witcher could even turn around to leave.

“Why would I??” He had started talking after locking every emotion up for an entire day and now it was too hard to seal his lips again. “Why would I even come close to wanting help from you people when all you've been doing since the beginning of this hunt is treat me like I'm the biggest burden you've ever laid your eyes upon??” his voice started quavering and he instantly stopped, inhaled, exhaled, resumed with a calmer voice, steadier, resigned. “They all look down on me and you're not even talking to me anymore.” Then, barely uttered, “It's like I don't even exist, Geralt.”

“So this is a dignity thing?” the words were cutting, but the bard didn't flinch, didn't react, simply stared, using resignation as a shield. “You were ready to die just because you were pissed at me for not giving you enough attention?”

“You don't--” a sigh escaped his lips, he let his arms drop by his side. “You don't get it.”

“Yeah, I don't.”

There were some footsteps, and then Jaskier was left alone with the burning stares and dripping blood.

He shook his head, sat back down on the log, and sighed. Yeah, he was definitely more than aware he was not a witcher, Jaskier thought bitterly. The tears he had to bite back were enough of a harsh reminder.


	4. Chapter 4

Jaskier shook his head, sat back down on the log and poked at his wound, knowing he was far from getting light-headed again. Maybe he could stitch it up himself. A shadow came over him, the log slightly trembled under the weight of a bag being unceremoniously dumped onto it and someone crouched beside him.

“Don't make that face, bard,” Téa admonished him lightly, “at least it's some great material for a song.”

Jaskier huffed, a tiny smile pulling at the corner of his lips. He saw a light smile appear on Téa's features from the corner of his eyes, and ignored it, knowing commenting on it would probably make it vanish faster than it appeared. He heard her getting some things out of her bag, then her fingers barely grazed his wound and his arm twitched. He clenched his jaw, felt her pull away and silently prayed for her not to go easy on him just because of the injury. Usually, he thrived on this kind of attention, affectionate smiles and fingers gently mending whatever injury he had managed to bring upon himself; but at this very moment, Jaskier was feeling rather agitated, on the brink of losing it, and if anyone even just dared to try and pamper him, he couldn't be held accountable of what would leave his mouth then. He knew he wasn't risking anything with Téa though, she was special, a whole new sort of stony kind heart, and he knew she'd treat him as an equal, no matter how much of a wimp he was about a sword slashing through his skin. The fingers were back onto his skin just as fast as hey had left it, as if the woman hadn't meant to recoil, and when Jaskier accidentally hissed in pain as she slightly moved the tender skin, still pinkish from the hit, Téa shifted, leaned back, rummaged through a bag and wordlessly handed him a bottle of ale.

Jaskier stared at it for a few seconds and then grabbed it, but his hand supported the tiniest trembling and his fingers were clenched too tightly around the neck of the bottle, the blood made his undershirt cling to his skin –when had his throat started feeling this tight?– and god why couldn't he ease the nerves in his fingers suffocating the neck?

A needle poked at the sore skin and Jaskier was suddenly on his feet, bottle forgotten on the ground, more focused on the blood boiling in his veins than on the one tainting his clothes. “I'll just--” he whipped around to face Téa, a hand on his hip as to pretend he was composed. “Thank you, but--” god did she look annoyed – could everyone hear how breathless he was? “I just need to take a walk. I'll stitch myself up later.”

He barely made two steps away before her voice rose up behind him. “You're gonna go for a walk? Like that?” the disbelief in her tone almost made it sound like she was snorting, and it was more reaction than Jaskier had gotten from her with an entire day of rambling.

“Why yes!” he shrieked before lowering his voice, pretty sure that one or two octaves higher and only Geralt would be able to hear him, which he definitely didn't want. “Nothing a nice stroll cannot heal, right? Isn't that how the saying goes? No? Alright, tough crowd I guess,” Jaskier chortled, his voice laced with uneasiness.

The bard turned around and strode away without waiting for an answer, and Téa let him go anyway, knowing when not to interfere. He stalked out of the camp, through the scarce ring of trees that surrounded it and back near the path they had arrived from, not caring the slightest about where he was heading as long as it was in the opposite direction of Geralt. As he got further and further away from everything that had been causing worries to pile up inside of his mind, his quick pace started faltering and his stomping turned into slow, hazardous steps. His focus started slipping away and the brunet kept slowing down until he came to a stop.

Then, his arse was seated on a rock, his head between his hands, a shaky breath grazing his lips as an attempt to release tension from his body. He rubbed a hand over his forehead as he sighed, then winced at the inevitable pang of pain shooting through his arm.

He knew he was supposed to be used to this. And he was, really. Being a witcher's travel companion was basically just signing up for communication issues and yearning, he had known what he was getting into at the time. But, somehow, it felt like this day had been different. Not for Geralt, not for their relationship in general, just for him. Jaskier had basically been pulling onto the same rope with Geralt for years now, and today, it had slipped away from his fingers. He had lost his nerves, something he rarely did. He often refused to engage when it got too serious, because he knew he was quick to become frustrated, speechless, stammering, not controlling what word left his lips anymore, which was truly a shame for a bard. Instead, the brunet would usually leave some time for Geralt to blow some steam off, and come back an hour later, ready to chew his ear off again.

Today, he hadn't backed off, and Geralt obviously hadn't either, because why would he. He had pushed Jaskier away, refused to understand him, the bard had expected just as much. But damn did it hurt, seeing that when one day, Jaskier finally had enough and lost it, Geralt wasn't there to pick up the pieces behind. He had ignored him, glared, shouted over the last two days, and now Jaskier was truly wondering if that was how he had lived for the last ten years, forcing his company on him days after days and ignoring everything the witcher would throw his way just because he knew, or at least felt like, somewhere, deep down, Geralt cared about him. He had even considered it a privilege, had lowered himself to feeling fortunate of getting bits of attention every now and then. It had been years, _years_ , and yet they were still playing that same game of pushing and pulling, but how much longer until Jaskier stopped pulling? The rope the brunet had been pulling on for years was starting to fray, and if the brunet had ignored it in favor of taking great pleasure into the few gentle glances and subtle touches the witcher could offer him, it was much harder now that all of his attention had been swept away by a gorgeously terrifying sorceress. Jaskier was tired of chasing.

Geralt was right. It all came back to dignity, and Jaskier had lost his years ago.

“Airing it out, uh?” Jaskier practically jumped out of his skin, and turned his head so abruptly he almost got a whiplash, only for his eyes to land onto Borch. That one was just reaching the rock, coming from the path, and yes, maybe it would've been a good idea not to face the wrong direction and to keep an eye on the camp, but Jaskier hadn't made a single good decision in his life and he surely wasn't about to start now. “I've got to say, this is quite an unorthodox take on mending wounds,” the older man lightly teased him, his wise features not matching the tone at all.

“Well, you know how bards are,” the brunet replied with a huff, “always the ones for unorthodox lives,” he shrugged, instantly getting a harsh reminder of his poor condition. “Would you happen to have a needle and some thread, though? Airing it out seemed like such a better idea when I was still running high on adrenaline,” Jaskier winced, suddenly wishing he had stayed beside Téa like a responsible, functioning adult.

Borch chortled but didn't reply. _Oh, alright, I guess it was a joke then,_ Jaskier thought, deciding to go along with it. He did feel quite heroic, pondering about life seated on a rock while completely unbothered by an open wound still dripping; he wasn't going to ruin by complaining about said wound, which was very much painful and very much prone to infections. Jaskier glanced at it for barely a second, scrunching his nose at the nasty-looking cut, before dragging his attention away from it, just in time to see Borch sitting down beside him on the rock, slightly facing away from the bard. Jaskier stared at him curiously for a moment, wondering what he was doing here and what made it that he was suddenly so worthy of his attention.

Borch took in a big gulp of air, as if he was just as relieved to get away from the camp for a while as Jaskier, before speaking up, his eyes still gazing into space. “That was brave, what you did earlier,” he mused in that warm, casual tone that instantly put his interlocutor at ease, as if they had known him for years. “Not many people decide to spare a monster when encountering one.” It wasn't framed as a question, but the bard could almost hear a resounding “why” behind the words. Regardless, he chose to ignore it for he had no idea what he'd answer.

“Oh no, no, I wouldn't want you to be mistaken, apparently it was not bravery, it was a stupid impulsion based on dignity and contentment,” the humorless laugh that left his lips felt very foreign on his tongue, as if the bitter voice belonged to a stranger, and yet he went on. “I'd even say selfish, if you asked me.”

“Selfish, brave, it's all just details,” Borch opined, brushing his resentful comment away as if a few words would be enough to calm down the bard's nerves. “What matters is that it's your arm that's bleeding, and not a harmless creature on our camp's ground.” Jaskier was taking this comment back, Borch had almost managed to brush all negatives feelings aside in a few words, just by mentioning Bast's survival, but it wasn't enough and Jaskier could feel traces of shame lingering in him.

He couldn't take pride from his actions, not anymore. Because of it, Jaskier had breached the most important friendship in his life, one he had mysteriously managed to maintain for years on end. Geralt had been distant, disappointed, closed off, and in the end it pathetically felt like it was all that mattered. In spite of the brand-new blossoming friendship with the creature he had not-so-tenderly decided to name Bast, Jaskier's heart felt riddled with guilt as he realized that if he had to do it again, he wasn't sure he would. It made him feel terribly weak, terribly human, and Jaskier found himself shifting his injured arm so he could find comfort in the burning pain, reminding him he had chosen to act. Bast was fine.

Not keen on sharing his thoughts, Jaskier stayed mute, silently staring at the foliages quivering because of the wind. Then, all of the sudden, Borch's voice rose up again, as if chiding in his thoughts. “He doesn't like to feel the situation slipping away from his fingers,” he shot Jaskier a look over his shoulder, knowing he didn't need to clarify who he was talking about. “It doesn't mean you did wrong.”

A short silence fell between them, shortly disrupted by Jaskier's snort. “Well, it has to,” he said. “I have a reputation to entertain, see. If I start doing right things, it will throw off the balance of the entire universe, and next thing you know, Yennefer will be a sweet bubbly lady, Geralt won't have any communication issue and Valdo Marx, poor little Valdo Marx, will lose his hands in a oh so tragic accident, rendering him completely incapable of playing his damn lute.”

“You don't need to do that.”

Taken aback, Jaskier slightly shifted on the rock to drag his gaze towards Borch, his eyebrows slightly furrowed. The brunet was finally facing him, as if he had finally understood this was more than a casual conversation, more than someone coming to him because there was no one better around to talk to. On the other hand, the older man was still slightly facing away from him as he sat beside the brunet on the rock, his eyes squinting at the sky. Then, before Jaskier could ask him what it was that he didn't need to do, Borch opened his mouth again.

“Play the bard,” he clarified, finally turning his head to return Jaskier's gaze. “I came to you on my own accord, I'll leave if I get bored, you don't need to entertain me.”

Jaskier stared back at him for a few seconds, looked away with a quiet sigh and-- “Geralt is in love with Yennefer, isn't he?”

He didn't know why he asked that question, he didn't even know he had it in mind before it stumbled out of his lips. Jaskier would've more expected himself to be offended by the bard comment, because he was a bard after all, he wasn't playing pretend and didn't like people insinuating to. But, in a way, he knew Borch wasn't here to banter, and, almost feeling blessed from being worthy enough of the older man's attention, Jaskier decided to go along with it, blindly give him trust and enter that honest moment the man was trying to have.

“I don't think even he knows what's going on inside his head,” Borch replied, awfully sounding like he was trying to balance out brutal honesty and lie by omission.

Jaskier's expression slightly twitched at his words, but the bard already knew anyway. He hadn't even needed to ask. Didn't even know why he did. Maybe to hurt himself a little more than he already was, plunge the knife further until one day, eventually, he'd trigger a reaction out of himself: indignation, hatred, anything that'd help him escape from the witcher's grasp, a grasp terribly non-existent and only fueled by his wishful thinking.

“Yeah, I don't...” Jaskier wet his lips, shifted again to face the horizon once again. “I don't know why I asked you this,” he then scoffed. The bard lightly shook his head, pointedly ignored the fixed gaze Borch was giving him, the words “yes, you do” barely kept from rolling off his tongue. Instead, the older man chose to put an end to the brunet's misery and clapped his hands onto his knees, closing the exchange.

“Well, I should go,” he stated as he got up, throwing one last look towards Jaskier before he got going. His eyes were instantly drawn to his torn sleeve, the blood had seeped through the entirety of his sleeve and the clothing could now be mistaken for a dark plain red tissue. “Should I go get Yennefer?” Borch offered, giving the bard a pointed look that left no room for a negative answer. But Jaskier wasn't one for obedience.

“I'd rather you let me to my own demise. There are worst fates than bleeding to death, I'm at peace with it,” he snorted dismissively, waving off the other's concern.

Borch arched an eyebrow, an amused smile creeping onto his face. “You're aware it would take you a long time to bleed to death right? Hours, even,” he jested half-heartedly, caring more about maintaining this entertaining short match of wits than about the man's actual demise.

“I'm fine with it.”

“You'll probably die of an infection before the blood loss takes you out.”

“Infection it is then,” Jaskier gracefully accepted, emphasizing his point with a slight wave of the hand. “As long as you agree to slightly deform the tale as you relate my death. I would love some heroic sacrifice during an epic sword fight, but I can settle on being killed by the brave but oh so simpleminded Eyck.”

The chortle it drew from Borch probably meant the man wasn't on board with the plan. Shame, Jaskier thought as he returned the man's smile, bashfully amused by his own antics. “I can see why the witcher is fond of you,” the man mused as he turned around and walked away, leaving an unsettled bard behind him.

Well, the brunet definitely hadn't expected this last comment, and it definitely wasn't going to be good for his whole “get a dignity” plan. One mention of the witcher even just slightly appreciating his presence was enough to make him question just how important dignity was, but who could blame him, bend over backwards for people was the very first lesson in Oxenfurt, the essence of every bard to ever grace this earth.

* * *

When plumes of smoke could be seen bellowing above the camp, framed against the clear sky of an approaching noon, Jaskier got up and dragged himself away from his quiet spot. He had spent the last five minutes with his mind completely blank, letting his eyes wander over the landscape, lyrics grazing his mind every now and then. It was as if he had used all of his questions on Borch, handed him over all of his concerns as the older man gracefully accepted them, and now he was left peaceful, or at least as peaceful as he could be. He hadn't even thought about his wound, but he knew there was probably nothing to worry about: if it had been anywhere near endangering his life, someone would've come to scold him. Or at least he hoped so.

As he made his way up the path with a slow, strolling pace, Jaskier instinctively slowed down when he remembered Bast. He made a pause in his tracks, scanned his surroundings, then, unable to find the creature's silhouette among the bushes, resumed walking, knowing the others wouldn't wait for him. His heart felt a little heavier as he reached the camp, wondering if he'd see the Hirikka again after chasing it so hastily from the place. Probably not. The bard would never see the creature again as soon as they left the camp anyway. It wasn't like the beast was going to show up again, all perked up and ready to follow him on a dragon hunt. Jaskier at least hoped Bast would stay safe, and far away from the people who crowded this camp.

“You took your time,” a voice announced flatly as he reached the site.

Jaskier diverted his attention from all the people packing up to redirect his gaze towards the voice, his eyes directly landing onto Yennefer, who was waiting near what used to be a fire and was now a pile of wet logs, ashes and soot. With her arms crossed against her chest, she seemed seconds away from tapping her feet against the ground impatiently, offering him a tight smile. She had probably been asked by Borch to mend Jaskier's wound. Silently cursing the older man, the bard looked away in annoyance before joining the sorceress regardless, knowing that, with everyone packing, she was the only one around who could lend him a willing hand. He would've taken up the infection any other day, but he wasn't keen on being left behind to die on his own.

Yennefer rolled her eyes at his reluctance and motioned to him to seat on a log as she dug through a bag. She threw a vial towards him, which the brunet clumsily caught before giving it a hesitant look. “In case of any infection,” Yennefer chimed in, giving him a pointed look until he shrugged and brought it to his lips. He scrunched up his nose at the taste, tossing the empty vial aside and looking away to take a deep breath for a second, afraid he was about to gag. Yennefer had to keep herself from rolling her eyes again as she came to sit beside him, keeping her bag nearby on the ground. With a hand gentler than the bard expected it to be, she cupped his arm and brought it closer to her, clicking her tongue at the damage. Slightly shaking her head, the sorceress pulled bandages and a small jar out of her bag, carefully placed both on her laps before ripping Jaskier's sleeve to transform what had been a clean cut into a gaping hole. The bard made a sound of protest, instinctively pulling his arm back, but Yennefer only tightened her grasp around his arm while shooting him a glare from under her eyelashes and hell was this woman strong. With a sigh, Jaskier slumped his shoulders and stopped resisting, looking away like a scolded child. He missed Yennefer's annoyed, yet amused, glance, and tried his best to conceal the shiver that raked up his spine as she started applying a salve to his wound.

“So, Bast, hm?” the sorceress spoke up out of nowhere, and if it hadn't been Yennefer, Jaskier would've thought she was trying to distract him from the pain. But it was Yennefer. “Like Bastet, the cat-headed goddess?”

Jaskier opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again and-- “... Yeah, of course,” he weakly lied, as usual his voice one or two octaves too high.

Yennefer stared at him for a second as she wiped her hand with a rag, arched an eyebrow, then an amused smirk graced her lips and oh, she knew. She definitely knew. Embarrassed, Jaskier looked away and tried to change the subject, asking her how long it'd take to heal. Yennefer waited to be done unrolling his bandage before answering. “One hour, two maybe,” she replied as wrapped the tissue around the wound covered in salve. “I was given quite a short notice to prepare it, you see.” She offered him a deadpan look, clearly not glad about spending half of the time she had to pack her things hastily preparing a salve. Jaskier looked up, almost looking like he was about to apologize, but then met her dark eyes and insticively glowered back, because, what else could he do, he hated the woman after all. They stared at each other for a few seconds before Yennefer's eyebrows weirdly perked up, accompanied by a cocky smile, as if she had just been hissed at by an angered kitten. Before the bard could take offense, she got up and started putting away her salve.

Jaskier huffed at her as he got up, rolling his sore shoulders a little to get ready for the long walk ahead. Then he stopped, noticing his arm wasn't hurting at all anymore. When he looked up again, Yennefer was staring at him, a knowing look on her features, still wearing that damn smug smile. He had to say it. He knew he had to say it, but it didn't mean it didn't hurt.

“... Thank you,” Jaskier mumbled, his eyes not leaving hers, refusing to show weakness.

The smile on Yennefer's lips seemed to shift, strangely appearing to be more natural all of the sudden, more genuine. “Well, I guess I can thank you for not filling in your role of useless bard for once and keeping Eyck from slaughtering that creature,” she shot back, both still sounding like they were jesting even when they were being thankful towards each other.

Without even forcing himself, Jaskier found himself smiling back at her, and quickly schooled his features when he realized, not without her noticing it. He turned away, ignoring the sorceress' scoff. “Well, I'd better start packing before those brutes leave me here to die,” the bard started rambling again, grabbing his bedroll and bag. He heard fading footsteps, and stopped stuffing his bedroll into his bag for a moment to gaze at his bandaged arm. That time, when a smile graced his lips, he let it linger there, his heart once again lightened by an unexpected help.

Maybe Jaskier had been wrong. He did get attention. And who cared if it wasn't from Geralt? He certainly didn't need him, didn't need his approval. He didn't need Bast either. He could easily befriend other people, he'd be fine. Jaskier felt his lips turn into a frown and squinted his eyes shut for a second, taking a deep breath. He'd be fine.

“Jaskier,” a voice called out from a few feet away, “I'm afraid you'll have to do some more babysitting.”

With one eyebrow corked up, the bard turned around, shooting Yennefer a confused glance. That one didn't say anything, simply poiting to the left with her thumb, her arms once again crossed against her chest. Jaskier's eyes followed her movement and felt a smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

“Allow me to welcome you to your first dragon hunt, Bast.”


	5. Chapter 5

“If he keeps his distance, there's no reason for the others to attack him,” urgent whispers replaced the hasty packing that had disturbed the woods minutes ago. “We cannot keep him from following us. Plus he was starving when I met him, he is more likely to survive following a group of hunters than staying on his own.”

Yennefer seemed about to retort with another annoyingly good counter argument as she parted her lips with a determined look in her eyes, but then no words followed. Conflict colored her eyes as she seemed to ponder over his words, and then she closed her mouth, let out a defeated sigh. “Alright,” she gave in, shooting a wary look towards Bast who had been sniffing the ground for the whole argument, his ears twitching furiously with all the scents his senses were picking on. “But don't think I will come to your rescue if people notice you've brought this beast along. If they try to kill it again, you're on your own,” the woman warned him before turning around to stalk away. With a huff, Jaskier followed suit, mumbling about a certain sorceress having no pity towards poor endangered species, and if the brunette heard him, she didn't comment on it, rolling her eyes with the corners of her lips ever-so-slightly curling upwards.

That's how, for once, Jaskier found himself on his own at the end of the trail, casually plucking at the strings of his lute as he strolled along. Usually, he was near the middle, Téa or Geralt not too far from him, as if his tendency to have his head in the clouds deemed him unfit of being left alone, something Jaskier could definitely not deny. He had seen Geralt linger at the edge of the camp as the group had slowly made its way back on another path, but the man had stalked away upon seeing Yennefer by the bard's side, knowing he'd be fine. The two had had to pick up the pace at first, having stalled for a little too long at the camp, but they had quickly been able to reach the end of the trail again, closing with the group of Reavers. The sorceress, apparently more trusting of him or just not caring at all, had left the bard's side almost as soon as they had reached the group again, speeding up to join her idiotic knight, and Jaskier had been left alone at last, playing his lute as he listened to the ruffling of the bushes around him. He hadn't been very pleased upon seeing the people who were right before him on that path, despising most of the Reavers who traveled with them as they were probably the most disdainful people he had had the pleasure to encounter lately, but as long as he kept a safe distance, Jaskier knew he'd be able to safely play his lute, knowing his new travel companion was well-hidden from their angry eyes.

An hour passed, a few songs went by, and by the time a sack full of apples was passed along in case anyone was feeling a little weak, Jaskier's nerves had been soothed by his music and the bard was casually strolling a few feet behind the Reavers, unconsciously getting a little too confident. He didn't notice the wary glance thrown his way everytime he threw a glance towards the thicket beside the path, needing to check on Bast every once in a while. And then, when Boholt fished an apple out of the sack and tossed it backwards for the bard, Jaskier looked down at the fruit, moved aside and swiftly sent it rolling towards the thicket with one precise kick. He saw it disappear into a bush, then the foliage shuddered, and Jaskier smiled at the silhouette hidden within the leaves before resuming walking. When he dragged his gaze back in front of him, he stopped dead in his tracks, Boholt standing less than a foot away from him. “You think we're stupid?”

Jaskier flinched at the sudden proximity and had to stop himself from wrinkling his nose at the stench that invaded his nostrils. He stepped back, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Not that he didn't know what he was accused of, but he hoped to be wrong. “Excuse me, what?” the brunet piped, silently cursing his voice for giving away his lie before he even tried to tell it. He straightened and resumed with a firmer voice. “If it's about the apple, it rolled away and into the thicket when you tossed it towards me, so maybe a little more manners next time--”

Taking a sudden step forward, Boholt fisted the bard's collar, jerking him closer. “Don't lie to me,” he seethed. Jaskier managed to break free from his grasp, but was kept from backing away when he noticed the small crowd gathering around them, only composed of Reapers at first before other people slowly backtracked the path to see what was the commotion about.

“We didn't bring provisions for that moron to waste it all on your little friend,” Boholt sneered, taking yet another step forward to get right into the bard's face. A familiar guttural growl made him back two feet away from the brunet, but before Geralt could step in and follow up with his warning, the ring of people created around the two shifted as someone forced their way through the crowd, snatching the sack of apples in the meantime. Then, with all the confidence in the world, Yennefer placed herself beside Jaskier and dumped the sack of provisions onto the ground, apples spilling from it directly onto the dusty path. Boholt diverted his attention from Jaskier to glower at her, and the sorceress didn't even do as much as flinch under his glare.

“If I remember right, I financed half of that food,” she affirmed, chin high, daring anyone to contradict her. “Which means you don't own half of the apples on this ground, and if Jaskier decides to give his portion to our new travel companion, you don't get to say a word about it.” Eyck was about to intervene, as the owner of the gold she had technically financed it with, but the sorceress silenced him with one pointed look. “Does anyone have a problem with it? Or would you rather have me setting half of the provisions on fire to prevent you from fighting like children over it?”

“Travel companion?” someone in the back taunted her. “So now that ugly beast is our companion?”

Had this been the right time and right crowd, Jaskier would've used this as an opportunity to take a friendly jab at his favorite witcher, but the opportunity came one day too late and there was no words the bard particularly felt like addressing the man. Plus, he wasn't sure he would've received the “excuse you, this beast has a name and it's Geralt” very well regardless of the context, and the brunet wasn't too keen on getting punched in the stomach. Usually, Jaskier would've just directed the dig at Yennefer but there was no way he was turning that joke on the one person unexpectedly having his back. So, the bard kept his wits to himself and did what Geralt had never managed to have him do in years: keep his mouth shut and stand by.

“We should've killed that thing hours ago, let me finish what Eyck started.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes at the man who had just voiced that violent, mindless thought. The bard opened his mouth as he took a step forward, but was stopped by a hand on his wrist. Yennefer threw him an annoyed glare from the corner of her eyes, her gentle gesture suddenly seeming more like a warning than an advice. Jaskier jerked his hand away and flickered his eyes back towards the Reaper, ready to give him a piece of his mind, when a voice cut him.

“No one's killing that Hirikka,” Geralt's booming voice instantly casted a palpable silence among the circle. “It will leave when it's full.”

His words seemed pretty neutral but there was a clear underlying threat hidden in the dangerous glow in his eyes. Boholt's glare remained on Jaskier for a beat, as if he was pondering whether the witcher truly would go through with his threat. He bit the inside of his lip nervously, his eyes flickered to Geralt, then to his hand resting on the sheath of his sword. Without a word, Boholt dragged his gaze back on Jaskier before walking away, shouldering the man as he did so. The circle of people then started clearing off the path, and when someone came to grab the sack of apple, leaving behind the few that had spilled on the ground, Yennefer swiftly kicked one towards the bush where Bast supposedly still was hiding. She watched the foliage quiver with an unreadable expression, and then turned back to Jaskier, who would've been gaping at her if he wasn't so cautious around the sorceress. She still noticed how his eyes were slightly wider than usual, taken aback by her action, and winked at him, the ghost of a smirk playing on her lips, before strutting away. Jaskier followed her retreating form until his eyes landed on Geralt, who had lingered around as the people had resumed their walk.

The bard instantly tensed up, and the witcher visibly noticed it, his stare hardening. The brunet wanted to open his mouth, to say something, anything that would break the silence between them, but at the same time, he wanted to see, to wait and watch. He needed to know if their friendship would crumble as soon as he stopped pulling on the rope. So, the bard waited. And after a few seconds, maybe even less than that, Geralt pursed his lips, turned around and left.

Jaskier watched him stalk away, unconsciously chewing the inside of his cheek. He could feel his blood slowly boiling, the resentment slowly building up. The rope, fraying a little bit more. And usually, he would've complained. He would've stalked after Geralt, annoyed him into communicating with him, but the rope was worn out, it was burning his hands, so Jaskier let go of it and grabbed his lute, plucking at the strings until he felt the tension melt away from his body. He started walking again, once again keeping a safe distance with the rest of the group, and when he heard another rustling in the bushes beside him, he felt a soft smile curling the corners of his lips. “Bast,” he called out. The beast was strolling beside the path among the bushes and thick foliages, as if he wasn't following them but just happened to be hunting nearby.

“You can come closer, it's safe now,” Jaskier told him, sending pointed glance towards the back of the Reapers, strolling confidently a few meters away from him. “I mean, it's safe for now. At least my music will keep them away.” From the corner of his eyes, Jaskier saw a figure emerge from the thicket and swiftly start strutting beside him. He kept strumming his lute as he resumed. “Did you know they called my voice an annoying background screeching? Mindless brutes, that's all they are. You wouldn't say my voice is screeching, would you?” The bard received a simple grunt as an answer, more than he would actually have expected. He was really starting to wonder if the creature could understand him word for word.

“Alright, maybe you would,” he winced. “It's fine. I'm not the touchy kind, I'll gracefully accept your criticism. I'm sure you don't really mind my singing anyway, don't try to deny it. You act all tough but no one's immune to fine art,” he taunted Bast, shooting him a mischievous glance. The beast was walking beside him on its four limbs, and only his twitching ears indicated that he was actually listening. “We'd make a great pair you and I, don't you think? You could be my signature mark, no one else has a creature as companion. The public would love you.” He received a skeptical glance from Bast, very similar to the one Roach would offer him everytime he tried to converse with the mare. “Or maybe not,” he corrected himself. “But just consider it: the bard and the Hirikka-- the bard and the beast!” Jaskier gushed, his hands finally leaving his lute's strings as he enthusiastically moved his hands in front of him. “Oh wait, no, they're already used to the bard and the beast.”

The bard snorted at his own joke, and stopped as soon as he heard a snort from beside him. He shot a look towards Bast, but that one was still looking forward. That beast was definitely a genius, the brunette thought as he started strumming his lute again. His new muse seemed full of surprises.

* * *

Way ahead of him, Geralt was walking on his own, enjoying this short moment of silence while he could. He had known these few days would be restless when he had agreed to help on this dragon hunt, but the witcher would've never imagined his worries would be caused by his relentless bard. He knew that one was waiting for him to say something, which was quite ludicrous. Who waited for a witcher to talk? Jaskier would just have to bear with it, because, quite frankly, Geralt had no idea what he could tell the bard. As always, he was messing up one of his closest relationships, and once again, he'd just let it crumble, because he couldn't understand why he had reacted that way, he couldn't understand why Jaskier seemed so saddened by the situation, he was clueless, frustrated, and would rather walk alone and avoid the problem than face the fact that he was utterly lost. He knew Jaskier would be fine for now anyway, he had his new little travel companion. New little travel companion would could literally make Jaskier's insides spill in one slash, but Geralt would rather not think about it at the moment.

“We're lucky to have you here. Who would bring up the group's spirit if it wasn't for you and your infamous brooding,” a voice quipped over his shoulder.

Geralt didn't need to glare at the person catching up with him to know it was Yennefer. If it wasn't for the voice or the scent, the witcher would've known anyway since pretty much no one dared to address him this way. He answered with a plain “hm”, proving her right, and pointedly ignored the smirk that instantly crept up on her face. “Is it about the bard again? Because honestly, this is beginning to feel a little repetitive. You need to find new things to be angry about before I get bored of you,” she nagged him with that content tone of hers. Just like she expected, the witcher did not answer, did not even spare her a glance, too annoyed to engage. She knew she'd have to adopt a different approach if she wanted to talk to him, but, if she was being honest with herself, she did not even know if she wanted to dig a little deeper in that issue. All she wanted was to talk to that man who fascinated her in a way she couldn't comprehend, but Yennefer knew that there was no other subject she could broach that would draw anything else than a “hm” out of Geralt.

She sighed, silently cursing herself for only taking interest in insufferable or tough people. “I fail to understand what's happening here,” Yennefer admitted, quickly resuming before the witcher could answer her with a gruff “not my problem”. “You should give him some credit, he did tame the beast.”

“He got lucky.”

“I wouldn't be so sure,” the sorceress shook her head, her eyes lost in the distance, knowing that she'd be tempted to make another playful dig at him if she saw his scowl again. “Maybe he's got it in himself. I mean, he did tame the infamous witcher.” If his grunts were anything to go by, Geralt wasn't very amused.

“He didn't.”

Always one for developed answers. Yennefer couldn't help herself but roll her eyes, hoping letting it out that way would stop her from sassing him. “Not yet, but he's getting close.”

“Well his progression will meet an abrupt stop if he keeps trying to play with monsters.”

“You are exasperatingly oblivious,” Yennefer's groan almost came off as a growl. She was not a patient woman and definitely could not handle the frustration building up inside of her any longer. “Can you even see what you are doing or is your head too far up your lovely arse?”

Geralt finally turned his head towards her, and his eyebrows furrowed even deeper than before if it was even possible. Yennefer tried her best not to sigh, she really did, but who could blame her. She was too clever and rational for half of the people in this dragon hunt. “Listen, I'm not trying to defend the annoying bard, but,” she had unconsciously slowed down her pace until completely coming to a stop, now facing Geralt, “you spend your days complaining about how he's always attached to your hip and completely useless, but as soon as he goes and tries to accomplish something on his own, you get all pissy about it?”

Geralt turned to face her, despite his conscience trying to tell him this conversation certainly wasn't about to help his execrable mood. “I never said he was useless.”

“That's besides the point, but if you want to go there: you've also never implied he was anywhere near useful. All you do is complain when he's around, which I cannot really blame you for,” she ended with a mischievous smirk on her lips.

The witcher's face remained completely stoic, apparently not in the mood to take part of the sass, which was probably among the less surprising things of the world.“I'd rather have him attached to my hip and absolutely useless than risking his life for absolutely no reason.”

“I can't say I'm against him not trying to save his own life, but defusing the situation seemed like the only reasonable thing to do at the time, no?”

“He should've called for help.”

Yennefer could swear she felt a nerve pop on her forehead. Not the one for useless arguments, she decided it was best to just walk away. She wouldn't stoop so low as to lose her time and energy in an issue that wasn't even hers to begin with. “Alright, this is useless, I am not gonna keep on talking to that thick head of yours,” she scowled as she turned away. The brunette's fascination towards Geralt certainly wasn't enough for her to go through that much trouble, especially if said trouble involved that bard she had so little esteem for. Yet, the sorceress felt herself whip around one last time before she even realized what she was doing. “He's an adult, Geralt,” she shot at him, her voice holding way less venom than she would've expected it to. “He knew the risk he was taking, but took it nonetheless, because he learned from you. He knew what to do, how to do it, hell, he probably even expected to make you proud,” the words were flowing out of her mouth, and if she didn't know herself as well as she did, Yennefer would've thought for a second that she cared. “He is improving, but if you want to keep on spitting on his efforts, don't let me stop you.” As she spoke the last words to Geralt, she reminded herself that it was impossible. She hadn't cared in very a long time.

“ _Claws sharper than his wits,”_ the moment was ruined by Jaskier's loud voice coming from the back of the trail, a distance easily covered by his tenor voice. “ _The traveler could not resist.”_

Yennefer sighed and quickened her pace, hoping to catch up with Eyck who was obviously at the head of the group, letting himself believe he was leading. In the back, Jaskier was once again playing, but now had grown comfortable enough to intone his songs at full volume, as he usually did when he traveled alongside Geralt. For the last few days, the brunet had settled for quietly humming to himself as he tagged along with Téa and Véa, but it had felt like his creativity had been slowly building up inside of him, and the bard was relieved to finally be able to pluck at his strings without feeling the Reapers' heavy glares on his back.

“ _Holding his heart out to the beast,_ ” he chanted with a bounce added to his steps, “ _Last leap of faith for the artist._ ”

From the corner of his eyes, he noticed Bast mimicking his quicker, rhythmic strut, and smiled, feeling a spike of energy surge through him. As he kept strumming his lute and singing, Jaskier put more enthusiasm in his steps, almost hopping around at this point. When he got a little closer to Bast, that one playfully nudged the bard's side with his head. Jaskier let himself be pushed away only to take two large strides and whirl around, backtracking as he kept his eyes on Bast, still happily playing his lute. “ _No finer pair than the bard and the Bast,_ ” he beamed at the creature. His fingers met the strings of his lute again, only to emit a wrong note when Jaskier's back hit something, or rather someone.

Slowly turning around, the brunet had the pleasure to see that he had just bumped into a Reaper, one of Boholt's friend who had gladly taken part of the argument earlier. That one whipped around, glaring daggers at him, definitely not the friendly kind. “Watch it,” he growled, thrusting a hand against the bard's chest to shove him back. Before Jaskier even had to choose between talking himself out of the situation or just dodging it, the shove having activated his charm or flight response, Borch stepped in, one diplomatic hand put on the Reaper's shoulder and he placed himself beside him.

“Sirs, there's no need to waste your energy on threatening each other when we're all about to risk our lives anyway,” he resonated them, only managing to confuse Jaskier. Noticing the crease between the brunet's eyebrows, Borch slightly twirled around to motion towards the crowd of people gathered at the top of the slope with a jerk of the chin. Jaskier's eyebrows furrowed even deeper, and he walked past Borch, jostling his way through the crowd to see what had stopped their progress. When he emerged from it, he didn't even notice Geralt standing right beside him, his attention instantly drawn to the precipice only one foot away from him. His eyes flickered to the thin planks nailed to the cliff edge, the rusty chains and worn out path.

Geralt's glance briefly went towards Jaskier, but as soon as the bard locked eyes with him, he looked away and stepped closer to the edge, putting some more distance between them. A heavy silence stretched within the group, until someone asked who would go first. This time, Jaskier wasn't even surprised when he felt that old familiar wave of bravery laced with recklessness surge through him again. He did get surprised when he heard his own voice leave his mouth without his accord, though.

“I'll go.”

Maybe Téa was right, bards were truly incapable of keeping themselves alive.


	6. Chapter 6

So. Maybe Jaskier should've expected the refusal. Maybe he should've predicted the hand clasping his shoulder to jerk him back abruptly. Because maybe -and he would've liked to emphasize on the maybe- he was a simple man who had no special ability, not even a particularly great balance, and who already barely managed to survive on a daily basis. With all of these factors taken into account, Jaskier had absolutely no reason to take offense, and yet, when he heard a gruff “Absolutely not” shot in his direction, the bard squawked indignantly, whipping around to face who would dare to question his obvious incapacity to survive. He was a bard, after all, if he wasn't dramatic what else could he be.

His gaze didn't immediately land on the offender, and he witnessed Yennefer rolling her eyes at the scene before he saw that the hand on his shoulder obviously belonged to Geralt, because, who else? This time, the bard didn't jerk away from the grasp as he swirled around to face the man, his eyes glinting with determination, ready to stand his ground. There was no way he'd obey to a “friend” who hadn't talked to him without being forced to in a few days. “What do you mean “absolutely not”?” he dared Geralt, narrowing his eyes at the man.

“It means no but angrier,” the witcher deadpanned.

Jaskier crossed his arms against his chest, adding absolutely no credibility to his words but at least conveying his unyielding state of mind. “Well I thank you for this wonderful explanation but do you have any reason to give me or are you just going to unfairly keep me behind?”

Geralt's blank stare was more than telling to which option he chose, and, suddenly too tired to deal with it, Jaskier left behind his unyielding act and jerked away from the grasp on his shoulder to leave, walking past Geralt without according him a second glance. “Where are you going?” He could almost hear him rolling his eyes, but was irritated enough to stifle the smirk that started pulling at the corner of his lips.

“I'll go pay a visit to Bastard number two, I'm done with number one,” Jaskier gibed over his shoulder.

Snickers came from the group of dwarves right behind -group responsible of bringing them to this shortcut- and Jaskier tried to ignore the satisfaction swelling in his chest when he felt Geralt's disgruntled glower on his back. The task proved more difficult than expected when he noticed from the corner of his eyes a subtle grin pulling at the corner of Yennefer's lips. As soon as he accidentally locked eyes with her, the sorceress pressed her lips into a thin, indifferent line, and Jaskier huffed as he passed her. He then had to jostle through the crowd again, but this time it was less dense, the Reapers slowly leaving the group to take a different, safer path.

He found Bast at the back of the flock, sat on his rear near Borch, Téa and Véa, who seemed to be waiting patiently for the pack to start walking again. Bast was staring at the three warily, keeping them at distance, until Jaskier entered his field of vision and he whipped his head towards the brunet, alert. When he recognized him, his ears slowly tilted forward as a sign of trust and ease. Despite the warmth that spread through his chest at the sight, Jaskier couldn't help but think that the beast wasn't so human after all, since he didn't pick up on his half-hearted smile and apologetic eyes.

“Well, hello again, my friend,” Jaskier peeped, coming to a halt a foot away from Bast. “I'm gonna have to be the bearer of bad news today.”

Bast slightly tilted his head to the side, but his eyes remained blank, his features unreadable, or at least to someone who didn't know much about monsters. Despite that, Jaskier found himself more affected than he would've expected, a heavy weight sitting on his shoulders as he looked at his friend with desolation. His instincts made him want to crouch down but his brain was quick to remind him that Bast was not a teen, but a fully developed monster capable of harming. Not killing though, because Bast was still very much a sweetheart in Jaskier's biased mind.

“I'm afraid this is where we must part ways.”

Bast's ears folded flat against his head, and the bard would've been completely lost for its meaning, if it wasn't for the barely audible displeased noise emitted by the beast. Jaskier's heart got a little heavier. God this was harder than he thought it would be. “Unless you have some surprising climbing abilities that I'm unaware of, but even then I'm not sure I would want to push you to take the risk,” he chortled half-heartedly. He used to be selfish, or just a little self-centered as he liked to call it, but now, Jaskier felt like he was in charge of someone and if something happened to them, it would be the greatest failure he would've ever had to bear. He had to take care of Bast as much as he could while this one was still here. Which was more than ridiculous, because despite having saved the monster once, that one was probably more responsible than the bard.

A comfortable silence fell between the two, Bast staying completely still as he stared at Jaskier, and exactly when the bard started wondering whether he should have brought him some food one last time, something was tossed his way. With his poor reflexes, Jaskier barely had time to react before the thing smacked against his chest, sadly hitting the ground. The bard threw a bewildered look towards the bread at his feet, bent down to grab it, and then dragged his gaze back towards the responsible. Of course, Borch was there, standing a few feet away with his same old faint smile spread across his lips. The bard felt his lips curve to reciprocate it as he offered him a thankful nod, to which Borch lightly shook his head dismissively before going back to his conversation with Véa.

“Looks like we're parting the same way we met,” Jaskier grinned as he crouched down despite his earlier reluctance, softly tossing the bread so it'd land halfway between them, having learned better than to hand food to a beast. “My arm's right there, if you want to go a little more nostalgic and slash it,” he then teased him, pointing at his uninjured arm with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Then, much to his dismay, despite the way his nostrils flared at the appetizing scent, Bast barely shifted his attention towards the bread, his focus on Jaskier unwavering. When the bard would've felt uneased by the steady stare a day ago, he now found himself staying completely still when the beast shifted to crawl closer, his heartbeat remaining strangely steady. The bard was used to situations that would give anyone cold sweats, after all. He was a witcher's travel companion; he had seen monsters stranger than anything that could've come out of his own worst nightmares, so he was surely not about to get jittery because of a creature that trusted him way more than he should.

Jaskier was so caught up in his own thoughts that he almost jumped out of his skin when he felt something bump into his knee, and he was more than glad not to have done so when he saw what that “something” was. Bast had put his head against his bent knee, eyes closed as yet another sign of trust. The bard felt a knot forming in his throat at the sight, letting out a choked up chuckle.

“Gosh, you aren't making it easier.”

The beast puffed, and nudged his knee, almost making Jaskier lose his balance. He caught himself right on time by laying a hand flat on the ground, and shook his head at the beast. “Yeah, you do own your name,” the brunet said with a gentle grin, as he affectionately laid his other hand on Bast's head. He nuzzled against it for a fleeting instant before pulling back at the sound of approaching footsteps. Jaskier and Bast whipped their head around at the same time, only for their gazes to land onto Borch.

“We are leaving, Jaskier.”

Shooting a glance over his shoulder, Jaskier noticed that, in the meantime, the Reapers had left, most of the group had already started crossing the platforms, and only a few were left behind, the few of course including Geralt. With a sigh, the bard turned back to face Bast again, only to see that this one was ripping apart the piece of bread he had just been offered. Jaskier would've been tempted to pat his head again, but he knew that was something he could only do when the creature allowed him to, and especially not when that one was eating. One last gentle smile crept up on his face as Jaskier got up, ready to go. “May we cross paths again, companion.”

Bast kept on tearing the food apart chunk by chunk, and Jaskier breezed past him, missing its wide, saddened eyes as he watched him leave. When the bard reached the edge of the cliff, he courtly let Borch, Véa and Téa go before him, and then stared back at Geralt with a look matching his stern, blank eyes until that one sighed and looked away, deciding to give in for once. With careful steps, Geralt made his way across the platforms, followed suit by Jaskier. Their progress was slow but the bard wasn't as scared as he expected to be, keeping his hands firmly clenched around the chains nailed to the cliff and his eyes solely focused on the man before him. If there was one thing he'd never doubt, despite all the problems and tensions, it was that Geralt would never let him fall. Ever since the brunet had put all of his trust in the man, this one had never let him down, and no argument could ever change that.

But then, when they seemed to almost be halfway through, Jaskier heard a familiar noise coming from behind him. More cautious than ever, the bard slowly shifted to turn his head towards the sound, and a broad smile spread across his lips when his gaze fell onto the creature easily going from platform to platform on two limbs, his arms barely needing to use the cliff as support. The brunet's exclamation got caught up in his throat, and he remained silent, watching the beast catch up with him with a quiet beam. Silent. Not alerting Geralt of his pause. First mistake.

When Bast was only one platform behind, Jaskier resumed his progression so he'd leave the beast enough space to maintain a steady pace. Only then did he notice that Geralt was now a few platforms ahead of him, sending a worried shiver down his spine. He slowed down, his steps becoming more careful, his movements more deliberate, and then before he even knew it, he could see the edge of the mountain they were heading towards. A wave of relief washed over him, and Jaskier shot a glance over his shoulder to check on Bast. That one was still advancing easily, obviously not afraid of heights, but then, just when Jaskier was about to drag his gaze forward again, Bard's ears twitched and the creature froze. With his eyebrows slightly furrowed in concern, Jaskier came to a halt as well, and only then did his ears pick up on the creaking noise coming from the platform under Bast's paws.

Then, not even a second later, the nail gave out, platform collapsed, and Bast sank before Jaskier's eyes. In the second it would've taken the beast to disappear from his view, a scream barely had time to rip out of the bard's throat, the shock didn't even reach his features, and yet, when the brunet shot a hand forward, by an unexpected and blessed miracle, his fingers clasped around Bast's arm instead of meeting thin air. Acting upon pure instincts, Jaskier didn't measure the strength he put into his movement as he pulled the beast against his side, and Bast slammed into him because of the momentum, knocking him off balance. Jaskier felt one of his feet slipping off the platform, making him lose his footing, and then, before he could even cry out for help, he was falling, pulled down by the weight of his leg dangling off the edge. Someone in the distance roared his name as he desperately flailed his arms around, reaching out for something, anything, but he found no hand, no one, and when Jaskier thought it was over, each seconds that passed by pulling him closer towards an inevitable death, his fingers met the icy chains nailed to the cliff. He pulled himself up with all of his strength, his foot finding the platform again, and threw himself back against the mountain. Needing anything that could ground him, he clung to the cliff, resting his forehead against the rough texture of the rock.

The buzzing sound going on inside of his head isolated him from everything else around as he took a shaky breath, his fists clenched so tightly around the chains he could feel the marks imprinting on his palms. With his eyes squeezed shut, the bard felt a few tears rolling down his cheeks but completely ignored them, until one bead rolled down his chin, warmer, stingier. Jaskier winced at the feeling of his split lower lip under his tongue, but refused to wipe away the blood, his fingers still firmly clasped around the chain, his hands trembling so much he could hear them rattling. “Jaskier.” His stomach was twisted in knots and he felt like he was going to be sick. “Jaskier!” He took another deep breath, his heartbeat seemingly getting steadier by the seconds, and then, when he heard a quiet growl beside him, Jaskier waited a few seconds and opened his eyes.

“I'm fine,” he breathed out, his eyes locking with Bast's. The creature was staring at him expectantly, his features blank, and his pupils definitely not dilated enough for someone who had just had a brush with death. “I'm good, let's go.”

He carefully shifted his feet to face in the right direction again, forced to drag his gaze forward, right in Geralt's direction. To his dismay, the man was now much closer than he had been before. He had obviously jumped to his rescue when he had seen Jaskier falling, and even though the bard knew there was no way the witcher wouldn't have witnessed it, deep down he wished he hadn't just given another reason for his friend to worry about him. Geralt's stare was steady, the amber color almost looking more vivid than usual, alert with worry. Its intensity would've usually sent shivers down his spine, but Jaskier had just managed to come down from the rush of adrenaline of a near death experience, so there was no way he was going to squirm or shy away from the witcher's burning stare. “Let's go,” he reiterated with a firmer tone despite the light trembling still present in his voice.

Geralt clenched his jaw, looked down for a brief instant, and only then did Jaskier notice that his right hand wasn't wrapped around the chains, hanging by his side with his fist clenching and unclenching compulsively, as if he had reached for someone but had felt his hand closing around thin air. A palpable silence fell between them as Jaskier sucked in a breath, at a loss for words. After a beat, the brunet opened his mouth, but before the witcher's name could even grace his lips, Geralt turned away and resumed his progression across the cliff.

For a few seconds, Jaskier watched the witcher's retreating form with slightly parted lips and eyebrows knitted in guilt, until he snapped out of it, brought back to reality by the small frustrated noise emitted by Bast who was still waiting behind, probably not all that confident anymore now that he was standing beside a collapsed platform. The bard shot him an apologetic glance over his shoulder, which the beast didn't pick up on at all, flaring his nostrils in annoyance.

His steps were even more cautious than before as he started advancing again, and each time his foot met a new platform, he got a strange sensation of slipping over and over again, making his stomach lurch. At some points, darkness would start seeping at the edges of his vision and Jaskier would have to slow down even more, closing his eyes for a brief second as he inhaled deeply. When he would reopen them, he would see clearly again, but the dizziness wouldn't leave his mind and the knots in his stomach wouldn't uncoil. The bard didn't even notice how shallow his breathing was until his feet met firm ground again and he was finally able to take a huge gulp of fresh air, as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his lungs.

He made sure to step aside to let Bast reach the ground too, before taking a few seconds to regain his composure, leaning forward with his hands on his knees, solely focusing on his breathing. After a minute, which felt like a lot less when Jaskier was busy trying to make the buzzing sound in his head quieten, his ears picked on his name being said a few feet away from him. He straightened up, scanned his surroundings and noticed that Geralt had already vanished, before locking eyes with who would have been a very indifferent looking Yennefer if it hadn't been for the most subtle hint of irritation glinting in her violet irises. Borch was standing before her, owner of the voice which had just pronounced the bard's name, and motioned towards the brunet's arm as he kept talking to the sorceress, making her roll her eyes. Jaskier could already feel a scolding coming his way, but at least, the distraction managed to ground him, the brunet not even noticing that the buzzing sound had finally vanished from his thoughts as he headed towards the pair.

“Great, Jaskier, we were talking about you,” Borch greeted the bard when he reached them. “I noticed you pulled on your wound pretty harshly during your... your incident. I asked Yennefer to check on your injury, as she is the one who took care of it. I'll leave you two to it.”

Before the bard could even oppose, Borch offered them a polite smile and swiftly stalked away, leaving Jaskier standing in front of a very bothered looking sorceress. At the moment, Yennefer looked like she was struggling not to hit the foolish brunet over the head, and chose instead to give him an exasperated look as she made him sit down on a rock. “When I told you two or three hours, I didn't know I needed to specify that you weren't supposed to pull on your injury,” she berated him, tugging a little more forcefully than needed on his sleeve, making him hiss in pain. “Why did I even bother wasting my talent on you?” she then groaned as she pulled the clothing up, taking a look at the bandage.

“Is it bleeding?”

The sorceress didn't answer, but smacked his hand away when Jaskier tried to reach for it. “If it is, I'm not healing you again,” she hissed at the bard as her expert fingers started to swiftly unwrap the bandage, harshly tugging at it when it got caught, even though Jaskier was pretty sure she had no trouble unwrapping it and was hurting him purposefully. “You need to learn, and if you have to bleed to death to understand, then so be it.”

With the bandage finally out of the way, Yennefer peeked at the injury, her blank features making it impossible for Jaskier to know if he had reopened his wound or not.“I'll have you know I never learn,” the brunet quipped, quickly regretting his words when Yennefer sent him a dark glare from under her eyelashes. Her temper was short-lived though, and the sudden amused expression on her face hardly bode well for the bard.

“Too bad,” she replied to him flatly, the ghost of a smirk playing on her lips, “then I guess Bast will be glad to find a barely decomposed meal that strangely smells like you by tomorrow.”

All colors seemed to drain from Jaskier's face and Yennefer had to repress amusement from showing in her eyes at the grimace he was pulling.“... I guess I can learn this time,” the brunet suggested, wincing as he imagined his wound torn open again. “But only because I don't want Bast to be an orphan,” he then added out of pride. The sorceress wasn't fooled for a second but let it drop as she slowly started wrapping the bandage around his arm again.

“You got lucky,” she concluded as she tightly tied the end of the bandage, making sure it'd stay in place for the remaining of the trip. His wound had almost properly healed by now, and, had it been anyone else, she would've just thrown the bandage away and left it at that, but Jaskier wasn't to be trusted. That one visibly relaxed under her hands at her words, letting a relieved sigh escape his lips. After this incident on the cliff, the bard definitely hadn't been ready to witness another dripping wound appearing on his arm, and he was scared he would've actually fainted if his aplomb had been challenged a little more.

One last disapproving gaze and then Yennefer was gone as fast as she had appeared, off to see Eyck probably, since she had been busy maintaining a firm grasp around the knight for a few days now, slowly gaining more and more importance in his eyes until she'd be able to control him and obtain whatever she had been wishing for. Jaskier's eyes followed her, until his gaze was pulled towards Geralt, sitting on a rock, alone by the edge of the cliff. The bard, previously eased from all the tensions that had been occupying his muscles since he had crossed the cliff, suddenly felt heavy again with guilt, his mind flashing back to that moment when he had noticed the witcher's arm, limp by his side, clenching and unclenching as if trying to shake off the sensation of closing his hand on thin air.

Quieter than what he was known for, Jaskier trudged towards him, and purposefully did not let his eyes linger on Geralt's hand when he noticed how that one was looking down at his clenched fist. The thoughtful look he bore on his features felt all too familiar, and yet the bard hadn't seen him like that for days, their exchanges had involved more shouting and resentment than actual conversations. When the witcher noticed him, his eyes briefly flickered towards his friend before he dragged his gaze towards the horizon, unclenching his fist. Jaskier let himself flop down beside him, more because of a desire to feel comfortable with the witcher again than because of his sore muscles, and a momentary silence fell upon them as the bard pondered over what to say, carefully picking out words that would surely not lead them to another argument.

“I'm sorry.”

Jaskier could hardly believe the words he had just heard. He also could hardly believe they had just left his own mouth.

Bards were just like Hirikkas after all: more likely to survive following what could harm them the most than on their own. Weak, weak creatures.


	7. Chapter 7

Jaskier wasn't known for his great communication skills.

Next to Geralt, he did easily seem like the best one in that field, but in reality, he wasn't good at apologizing or at sitting down to discuss about serious issues. He simply preferred to escape the matters with a few witty remarks and dazzling smiles, strolling off with his lute in hand to play the performer again.

It wasn't that he didn't care. No, the bard cared a lot, but he also cared lightly, and this particular habit of his had failed him multiple times already. The bard didn't treat his relationships with triviality. It was quite the opposite actually, he gave them a lot of importance, he put effort in them, made sure the other always knew just how much they mattered to them, showering them with intentions. But the bard also believed in destiny. He had been raised to believe that whatever had to happen would happen, and if some chose to see this as a tragic lack of free will, Jaskier saw it as a comforting security; a way of knowing that whoever he was destined to be with, he would find again in the future. He firmly believed some lives were interwined.

It was possible that sometimes, the brunet relied a little too much on this security. It was possible that he had already let people go, only for them to never find their way back to him again. He had been careless, he had acted lightly, and he hadn't put his fist down when needed to be. Maybe destiny had failed him, maybe he had failed himself; the only thing Jaskier could make sure of was that he wouldn't let it happen again. He wouldn't let himself take things lightly anymore, not when too much was at stakes.

“ _It's fine, Julian. It's your life.” He knew these were lies. He was deeply aware. “You can go.” He left._

He would never rely on destiny again.

“I'm sorry.”

His words even seemed to surprise Geralt, and even if the man didn't let him in on it, still facing the horizon with a stoic face, the bard did see his amber eyes briefly flickering towards him. He didn't require for his full attention anyway. Maybe it was even easier if the witcher did not look at him, if it didn't become confrontational, just them letting their eyes wander over the sunset. As long as Jaskier didn't have to stare into those disappointed eyes of his, he was pretty sure he'd be fine finding the right words. And it was exactly what he did. “I didn't mean to scare you,” he uttered, the words barely stumbling out of his mouth. “I never really think about how my actions can affect other people. I guess I'm kind of used to feeling like I'm on my own, like the risks I take only concern me.” A comfortable silence fell over them like a blanket, before Jaskier resumed, feeling like he needed to add something, knowing that he had to hammer the idea in Geralt's mind like a nail in wood.

“I forget that people care,” he breathed, his eyes slowly drifting away from the landscape to land onto his own laps. “I forget that you care.”

It was brave of him, not to assume that the witcher cared, but to say it out loud like that, when that one had already rectified him multiple times on the simple notion of friends. For once though, Jaskier knew the witcher would begrudgingly take it. It wasn't a casual conversation, it wasn't just one of the bard's usual ranting. This conversation mattered, it tried to salvage what was left of the rope tying them both, and despite how ruthless the witcher had sometimes proven to be, Jaskier knew he wouldn't throw it all away just to enforce the stupid notion that he did not have feelings. Geralt wouldn't hurt him, not now. And that conviction was proved true when the silver-haired man stayed quiet.

Feeling brave, Jaskier dragged his gaze back towards the witcher, only to see that this one hadn't moved an inch. He thought the conversation was done, and was about to leave when Geralt's voice cut him short. “Why did you do it?” he knew he didn't need to clarify what he was talking about. The monster incident, the cliff incident, in the end they were the same and both came back to the same issue. Jaskier slightly furrowed his eyebrows, pondering, but then the witcher swirled his head around, they locked eyes and the words started rushing through his mind again. He shied away from the amber irises only for his eyes to land on an orange sky, inhaled deeply and parted his lips, not even knowing what words were about to spill out of his lips. Whatever he would find out as he tried to put a finger on what had gone through his head, he would say it. Because their friendship had lacked some truth and transparency lately, and the bard was tired of all the unsaid, his heart missing that comfortable honesty the pair had fallen into these last years.

“I...” he swiped his tongue over his lower lip, his eyebrows furrowing deeper, lost in his thoughts. “I guess I just wanted to prove something. If not to me, at least--”

“Please tell me you weren't doing this for me, Jaskier.” The witcher's groan cut him short as the man ran a tired hand over his face. Jaskier felt a light blush spread across his cheeks, caught in the act, and to forget his new aim for honesty and deny everything.

“That's not what I was doing it for!”

“Then what was it for?” When Geralt's voice would've usually gotten louder by now, his exasperation showing through his booming, intimidating tone, he remained strangely calm. “Because it seems to me like even you are struggling to grasp understanding of your own behavior.”

All Jaskier wanted to tell him at the moment was that he couldn't explain to him what had come over him, but with the frustration building up inside of him, he knew he wouldn't be able to keep his voice steady, nor calm, so he kept his mouth closed, silently despising his inability of talking when it mattered. It was supposed to be his thing: wit, eloquency, having his way with words. He was a poet first, a man second after all. This was the one thing he was good at, his only thing, and he cherished it deeply, more than thankful to have such a delicate thing as his talent, but what was the use of being eloquent if all he could do while arguing with Yennefer or trying to explain his irrational behavior to Geralt was stutter and make a fool of himself? When he needed them the most, words failed him and his thoughts got madly fuzzy. He couldn't even find one word to say, not even the beginning of a sentence, so he kept quietly berating himself, not even thinking about giving himself time.

Luckily for him, time was all Geralt could offer him at the moment, and a tranquil silence stretched between them, easing the bard's mind as soon as this one allowed himself to stop thinking. Jaskier sighed, gazing down at his laps as he absent-mindedly picked at his fingers. He could still feel Geralt's eyes on him, but his stare wasn't pressing, and slowly, his head cleared up and his words came back to him. If he had paused even just one moment to think about it, let doubt seep into his heart for just an instant, Jaskier would've definitely kept his lips sealed, because they weren't words he wanted to say, nor words Geralt wanted to hear. But that day, sacrifices had to be made, and he knew that honesty was the only way to salvage their friendship, or irremediably shatter it. He'd rather destroy it himself than let destiny fail him anyway.

“I'm not oblivious to the fact that I'm not like you others. I'm even painfully aware of it, might I add. From dusk to dawn, I walk among literal gods and all I have for me are my voice and my music, and sometimes,” he let out a quiet sigh, his heart thrumming softly within his chest. “Sometimes my lute feels heavy in my hands when I have to stand next to you. Despite my passion, despite my devotion to music, it's becoming harder and harder not to feel like dirt.” He could still feel Geralt's unwavering stare on him, wondered for an instant if the witcher had ever gazed at him for so long. “When I was only traveling with you, you were special and that didn't change anything about who I was, but now it's different. When everyone around you is special, it makes it harder not to look down on yourself. Because then it's not about who's special, it is about who's not.” Jaskier saw Geralt shifting beside him from the corner of his eyes, his eyebrows furrowed in concern, and dragged his gaze back towards the horizon, knowing he'd fall speechless if he had to look at the man in the eyes. “And then I don't just feel like the witcher's bard anymore. I'm among the common ones, among those people I play for, and call me a narcissist all you want but I can't have that.”

There was a beat of silence, and deep down, Jaskier knew this was his chance to dig a little deeper, his only chance to ever make the witcher truly understand; lead them towards a point of no return. “I know this is puerile, selfish even, but... It kills me, to be so human, Geralt.” His voice sounded weaker, exhausted, and despite it being the most vulnerable Jaskier had been in years, the words he yearned to say the most got stuck in his throat. The _I want to be good enough for you_ didn't dare to roll of his tongue. He found himself incapable of expressing his wish to elevate to Yennefer's level so Geralt would look at him with the same astonishment and wander in his eyes. Instead, he settled on something he felt like he already had said, something known, unimportant. “Every single one of my failures just stray me further away from being like all of you. So I go to greater lengths. I go further and further until I eventually make one too many mistakes, I guess.”

Maybe Geralt heard the defeated tone in his voice, maybe he knew just how vulnerable Jaskier felt at the moment; no matter the reason, nothing could have prepared the bard to feel a calloused hand touch his forearm, wrapping his fingers around it to gently squeeze it, as if trying to offer him comfort in a way that wouldn't involve any word. Typical witcher.

“I,” the gruff voice took a pause, swallowed, “I shouldn't have gotten mad at you. I apologize.”

His thumb started stroking the tender skin beneath Jaskier's forearm, and the bard felt his heart fluttering, his breath catching in his throat. Never in a lifetime would he have expected to get apologies from the man, let alone heartfelt ones. With a light content smiles playing on his lips, Jaskier felt a little surge of bravery go through him and put his hand over Geralt, the touch light enough so he wouldn't pull back. And as he felt the warm hand of the witcher beneath him, Jaskier kept his eyes focused on the sunset, doing his best to ignore the distant voice nagging him at the back of his mind.

_Here's your bit of attention._

After a few minutes, when the sun finally vanished, Geralt was about to end the exchange in one of the only ways that didn't involve a glare: lightly clap his hand against Jaskier's forearm, nod and stalk off – but the bard beat him to it, slipping his hand off Geralt's before strolling away. Despite his efforts to hide his discomfort, the tight smile that had replaced the brunet's content one didn't go unnoticed under the witcher's stare. And yet, he let him leave anyway. He stayed seated, trying to convince himself that it just wasn't enough to ruffle his feathers, pointedly ignoring the bad feeling churning his stomach, feeling of having broken something that couldn't be mended. So, instead of trying to heal a non-existent wound through unhelpful words and extended silences, Geralt closed his eyes and opted for some well-deserved meditation.

* * *

“Bard! Come take care of your monster,” a voice hollered in the back, “I don't like how it's leering at my food.”

Jaskier shook his head as he bent down to grab the lute case he had abandoned where they had arrived, knowing fully well that Bast wasn't causing any trouble. When he had been done with his conversation with Geralt, he had turned around and seen that the bonfire had already been made; the group was sitting around it on some rocks; and the beast had been feet away from them, docilely waiting to be called over.

With a sigh, Jaskier slung his lute case over his shoulder and swirled around, only to observe that -just like he had predicted- Bast was merely gazing at Yarpen's food, staying at a safe distance as he waited for Jaskier to return. The bard was glad to see that the beast hadn't just waited by the edge of the cliff, right where they arrived; the creature seemed to feel more comfortable than a few hours before, somehow seeming aware of the fact that he benefited from the witcher's protection.

“Oh there's no need to worry,” Jaskier smiled nicely as he sauntered towards the bonfire around which the group was reunited. “Given that your meat looks more like coal than proper food, I don't think Bast would even wish to lick it.”

Whilst some of his friends snickered, Yarpen threw a pebble at the bard as this one sat down near the bonfire, which simply bounced off his doublet. The brunet carefully chose an isolated log that didn't have anyone too close to it, before patting the space beside him. He didn't even bother to turn around and check if the creature trusted him enough to come before asking Véa for the bag sitting by her feet. She handed it to him and he made sure to offer her a dazzling smile to thank her, to which she replied by rolling her eyes before going back to her conversation with Borch.

When he leaned back again, digging through the bag as he looked for the freshest apple, Jaskier wasn't surprised to notice a shadow move beside him from the corner of his eyes, and casually tossed the fruit aside before handing the bag back to Téa. Not even two seconds passed before he felt some juice spraying his pants.

“You know you could just chew on the apple, instead of tearing it apart?” the brunet suggested with a friendly tease in his voice.

When he dragged his gaze towards the creature sitting beside his log, he was less than surprised to see that this one had juice dripping from his chin, chunks of apple scattered before him. He let out a soft chuckle, and then opened his lute case to start quietly plucking at the chords, having no interest in taking part of the conversations going on around the bonfire. Even if it was hard to believe, the bard happened to need some moments alone with his thoughts sometimes; tonight all he wanted was to play his lute sitting next to his new friend.

That one had just finished his meal and peered at Jaskier from the corner of his eyes as he licked his chops. “As my newest favorite person, you get to choose what song I shall perform for you tonight,” the bard beamed at Bast, strumming his lute again as to accompany his proposition. Bast shifted to be seated more comfortably, turned his head towards Jaskier and bared his teeth at him. Alright, it was a no then. Maybe the beast wasn't as tolerant as the brunet had deemed him to be, but the bard couldn't blame him – hours of walking beside someone playing a lute could wear down pretty much anybody. Plus, Jaskier was starting to accept the fact that maybe he was always drawn towards people -and monsters- with very little patience and appreciation of music.

“Alright, alright, no need for the scary face,” Jaskier chortled as he transitioned into a lazier melody, his fingers barely brushing against the strings. “How about a story?” Bast blew some air out of his nose before shifting again, lying down with his head resting on his paws, his eyes still on Jaskier. He'd take that as a yes.

Quietly humming to himself, Jaskier started pondering over what story to tell. He didn't want to tell a story he had already sung about, because he was a bard of many talents and refused to resort to his lyrics when he needed to be a story teller. He also could've easily gone for the mighty tale of his last contract with Geralt, one he hadn't had time to write about yet, but when the brunet had decided not to join the conversations going on around the bonfire, he obviously sought an escape, a way to take his mind off the current situation, so praising the witcher was not the way to go. As Jaskier racked his brains to think of a story he had known before all of this, before the dragon hunt, even before meeting Geralt, his mind obviously went back to his time in Oxenfurt, and when his eyes accidentally landed on the witcher's back, still sitting on that rock and meditating, one face came up to his mind. Despite his wish to distract his thoughts from what had just happened and unwind from the day by telling a story that had nothing to do with any witcher, Dagoucin's stories were the only thing that came up to his mind as he peered at Geralt, and he quickly realized these were also the only one he wanted to tell at the moment.

With a quiet sigh, Jaskier diverted his attention back to Bast, knowing he had no other choice but to tell the tale of a man who thrived on heartbreaks and courtly love. “Let me recount to you the story of a love that took place between Dauphiné and Provence,” the bard as he kept gently strumming his lute, as to provide for a background music. “There lived a gentleman who was far richer in virtue and honour than in other possessions, and who was greatly in love with a certain damsel.”

“As he was not of such noble birth as herself, he had no hope of marrying her; therefore, his only purpose was to love her with all his strength and as perfectly as he was able. This he did for so long that at last she had some knowledge of it; and, seeing that the love he bore her was so full of virtue and of good intent, she felt honoured by it, and showed him in turn so much favour that he, who sought nothing better than this, was well contented,” Jaskier recalled, his eyes gazing into the bonfire as he quietly spoke to Bast, not even noticing how the conversation around had quietened down. He had to stop his gaze from being drawn to the rock he had been sitting on minutes earlier, his own words hitting a little too close to home.

“The day the damsel's mother offered her hand to a wealthier man, the gentleman became greatly changed, his health faltering from day to day. And yet, he could not refrain from going as often as was possible to converse with her whom he so greatly loved,” he related as he swiftly shifted into a melancholic tune, and, as he looked away from the blazing fire, he locked eyes with Téa whose penetrating stare was solely focused on him and his story. The brunet missed a string, his eyes flickering from her to the group, noticing that everyone seemed captivated, even Eyck who had stopped ranting about his reign. With a smile pulling at the corners of his lips, Jaskier turned to look at Bast again.

“At last, when strength failed him, the poor man found himself stuck in his bed, unable to eat, drink or sleep. Perceiving that the end of his life was at hand, he asked for one last blessing: for the mother to place his sweetheart in his arms, and to bid her embrace and kiss him,” he recounted, a tender affection lacing his voice. “The lady went up to the poor sufferer’s bedside. Then, as well as he could, the dying man stretched forth his arms, and with all the strength remaining in his bones, embraced her who was the cause of his death. Kissing her with his pale cold lips, he held her as long as he was able, and in a dying breath, he professed that the love he held for her was so honourable that he had never desired of her any other favour than the one she was granting him now, for lack of which and with he would now cheerfully yield up his spirit to God.”

A palpable silence filled up the spaces between each sentence, everyone quietly waiting for him to end. Even the fire seemed to have stopped crackling, the entire place growing silent to honor the memory of the gentleman. As he gently plucked his last strings, Jaskier turned back towards the crowd, his heart quietly thrumming within his chest, having never gotten such attentive ears to listen to him. This moment felt special, endless. It was as if they were all sharing the same pain.

“He knows the greatness of my love and the purity of my desire, and I beseech Him, while I hold my desire within my arms, to receive my spirit into his own,” Jaskier ended with a quote, barely managing to conceal the slight trembling of his voice.

He grandly appreciated the solemn silence that followed his last notes, knowing that no clapping would have been fitting for such a tale, and that, had it ever come to Dagoucin's ears that people had dared to applaud one of his tragic romance, Jaskier would've definitely received an unpleasant letter from that one. As the bard looked around, he noticed among the contemplatives face Véa mouthing the last words, her face almost hidden by the shadows as she looked down at the knife she was fiddling with. She had probably heard it from Dagoucin himself already. Jaskier knew for a fact that the man was still telling that same tale years after, for he had run into him around a year ago during one of his performances. He wasn't that well-received in taverns, his songs and tales being too tragic and melancholic for the patrons to enjoy their nights properly, but those who appreciated his talent always paid him enough to make up for the ones who wouldn't.

The bard was about to ask Véa if she had heard it already during one of her travels, when Yarpen interrupted him. “There's no greater poison to a man than women,” he spat as he angrily bit into his stale bread. “That's why we better stay away from them, they're no good, always leading men around.”

Jaskier was about to counter, but Borch was quicker than him. “Oh but the lady wasn't heartless at all,” he chimed in, his friendly and warm tone needing no argument to ease Yarpen. “I reckon she mourned his death greatly, and had to be dragged away from his body. She concealed her feelings her whole life until it was too late, is that right?” he then asked as he flickered his eyes back towards Jaskier.

Oh. So they had definitely heard the tale already.

Jaskier nodded a little speechlessly. Borch's look was a little too pointed for his words not to have an underlying meaning directed at him. He felt his heart fall into the pit of his stomach as he voiced his agreement. “They gave the man an honourable burial, during which the lady was inconsolable. As if, after having concealed her feelings during his lifetime, she wished to prove her love and atone for the wrong she had done him.”

Another silence fell between the group, and a few minutes passed before the group quietly went back to their previous conversation, everyone except one bard, who still had his hands firmly clenched around his lute, head deep in his thoughts. He really despised Borch with his whole heart. Or at least he wished he could despise him. Because that man was really good at getting his point across, and now Jaskier couldn't help but let doubt and uncertainty seep into his heart.

Unconsciously, he let his gaze be pulled again towards the rock near the edge of the cliff, only to find it lacking the person who had been sitting on it. His eyebrows furrowed as Jaskier looked around, scanning his surroundings, and his glance quickly landed onto the person he was looking for, or rather his back. Geralt was stalking away, using a path that lead towards the only person who was missing around this bonfire, the only person who didn't sleep in the camp but isolated in a tent. Tent where she was alone, given Eyck's presence beside Téa.

Jaskier couldn't tear his eyes away from Geralt's back, watching his retreating form as one of his many arguments with Dagoucin's came back into his mind. He had never agreed with his friend's views on love, and they had often shared passionate debates over it, their most heated one issuing from the very same tale Jaskier had just recounted to his friends.

And as he set down his lute, his heart heavy in his chest and his hands too numb for him to play anymore, Dagoucin's voice echoed in his head, as clear as the day.

_I am firmly of opinion that he who loves with no other end or desire than to love well, will sooner yield up his soul in death than suffer his great love to leave his heart._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! First of all, I hope you've enjoyed this chapter
> 
> Second of all, I just wanted to clear up two little things  
> 1) The tale of the tragic love taking place between Dauphiné and Provence isn't from me, but from the second volume of The Heptameron, by Margaret de Navarre  
> 2) The last sentence isn't to take literally, Jaskier will not die (I clarified because you know sometimes it's foreshadowing and all but now here Jaskier has suffered a lot already I'm not a monster)
> 
> Thanks for reading x


	8. Chapter 8

_When Jaskier experienced it for the first time, he was merely an acquaintance to the witcher._

_They had known each other for one year, two maybe, and at this point anyone would've used the word friend, but Jaskier knew nothing about the man, no matter how much he nagged him for answers. Usually, their paths crossed and the insufferable bard found a way to stick around long enough to have a new tale to sing about. Then, they took two rooms, and parted the next morning. Jaskier never really thought about how he always made sure to wake up early. No, he made himself believe it was pure luck when they saw each other one last time in the morning, pointedly ignoring the way his body strangely came to life at the first rays of sun. The brunet only became aware of this habit he had taken the day they had to share a room, room they had to share because his pouch of coins had unfortunately been dropped while he hastily fleed from a drowner. Once again, it was another fact he deliberately ignored, not thinking about how he may have intentionally been a little more careless than usual with his pouch. He kept that thought away from his mind, cradling the idea that they were a little more than acquaintance, almost friends._

_The idea was crushed in the morning, turning into dust at the sight of the empty sheets lying next to him. The entire room was filled with an unsettling silence. A silence he would grow familiar to over the years, a silence that would never fail to put a damper on his mood. But at that very moment, Jaskier let out a content sigh after his restful night, rolled in bed, stretched, got up, and moved on. He was used to it, after all. No ties, no responsibility, no heartache, just a humble bard, his lute and destiny, keeping it all together._

_. . ._

When Jaskier experienced it for what feels like the last one of countless times, he held the witcher close to his heart, probably too close.

This time, he hadn't fooled himself into thinking they were friends. He had stopped believing in destiny and the night before, he had stopped awaiting for the man to come out of Yennefer's tent. He had even kept himself from looking twice when Eyck joined his own tent – the man had apparently been honest about not wanting to soil the sorceress' honor. This time, he had no reason to be hurt in the morning at the sight of the empty space next to him where Geralt's bedroll woud've usually laid. He had expected as much, after all. What truly hit him was the silence around ; the deafening, icy silence surrounding him. Jaskier looked around, and the entire world was gone. Yet, he didn't feel his heart pinch, his stomach twist or even just goosebumps on his arms. Absolutely nothing. He shifted, sitting up with his lute in his laps, and stayed there for a few seconds, just a moment to recollect his thoughts, a moment to get used to that chilling feeling of being truly alone.

Jaskier let out a resigned sigh, ran a hand down his face as if trying to wipe the exhaustion away. He stretched, felt some bones pop. And then, as in the old days, he got up and moved on. He was used to it, after all. No ties. No attachment. Just a humble bard, his lute, and the chilling lack of destiny, letting his life slip through his fingers.

Without a word, and god knows the lack of people around usually didn't keep his mouth from running, Jaskier slung his lute case's strap on his shoulder, when all of a sudden he heard some shuffling beside him. The musician turned his head to the side, and when his eyes landed onto his friend, his heart skipped a beat and he felt a warm feeling of affection pooling at the bottom of his stomach: the creature had waited for him. The beast had known him for two days, and yet as everyone packed up and left, he stayed faithfully by Jaskier's side. With a tender smile pulling at the corners of his lips, Jaskier brought his hand towards Bast, and patiently stilled right before his face. The creature brushed his muzzle against his palm before breezing past Jaskier. The bard's curious eyes followed the creature until that one stopped by the edge of the cliff, staring at the horizon, pushing the belief that he understood the world around him just as well as a human did further into Jaskier's mind.

Before the bard could go further into that thought, a crashing sound echoed through the mountains, making him recoil from a few steps as he whipped his head around towards the sound. The night before, they had been told the cave they were heading towards wasn't too far from here and they had to stop the night before because it would've been too dangerous to go further. Now that the sun had risen, Jaskier realized just how much of a cradle “not too far” had been. From where he was, he could see tiny silhouettes moving frantically after parts of the roof had caved in, undoubtedly because of the dragon. Securing the strap around his shoulder, Jaskier took off but barely had time to reach the narrowing path that led to the cave when he heard a quiet snarl from behind him. He whirled around, his eyebrows shooting up when his eyes landed upon Bast, still sitting by the edge of the cliff, giving him a dirty look.

“I'm sure this is a delightful view, Bast, but you're gonna need to put your sensitivity aside for a second so we can get there before I miss the whole fight,” he urged the beast, who bared his teeth at him before looking away. Jaskier felt a groan crawl up deep in his throat and pushed it back down. He pursed his lips, took a deep breath, and stalked back towards the edge of the cliff. “Alright my lovely, what has gotten into you? You had a bad night? The mindless brutes accompanying us didn't bother to say goodbye and it put a damper on your mood?”

Bast's feline eyes fell onto Jaskier again, and before he could curl back his lips to undoubtedly snarl at the musician again, a deep roar echoed through the mountains, followed by a crackling sound which dragged on for a moment; moment during which Jaskier found himself incapable of tearing his eyes away from the cave, his heart beating in his throat. From here, he could notice the slight shift of light created by the fire, but nothing else, and he wasn't sure the lighting would be what passionate people in a song about a dragon. He really had to witness the battle firsthand before it was too late.

He whipped his head back towards Bast, about to deliver him his best argument, his brain shifting into persuasion mode and ready to show off all his wits, when he locked eyes with the creature. The words died in his throat and he was left gaping at the beast for a second as he stared into the dilated pupils. He could discern the pure fear barely hidden behind Bast's irritated glare. Jaskier closed his mouth and his eyes flickered towards the cave, then back to his friend. He was torn and stayed quiet for longer than necessary: he already knew he wouldn't leave anyway. The battle was probably almost done, a few people were dead, Geralt was alive -- what was the point? The bard couldn't leave behind an animal which had waited by his side while he slept despite the tumult around as everyone resumed their journey. Maybe following the creature's instincts was the wisest thing to do.

With a sigh, Jaskier shook his head and gently put his lute case on the ground before lowering himself to Bast's level, sitting beside him in the dust as he stared at the horizon.

“You're gonna be the death of me, my friend.”

The wind picked up and Jaskier felt a shiver run through his body, leaving goosebumps behind as it went. He bit his lower lip and tried not to think about the familiarity of this morning.

He failed.

_. . ._

_When Jaskier experienced it again, it was just another morning, and he was still no more than an acquaintance to the witcher._

_They had known each other for a few years now and Jaskier wasn't too ashamed to say that his life pretty much revolved around the man. He gathered tales from his contracts, sang about his glories and then waited for their next encounters. Sometimes, people would ask him question about Geralt, but Jaskier still didn't know much about the man, and he had stopped nagging him with his relentless curiosity a while ago. Now he just talked, and the man pretended to listen, but it was simply how they worked and the bard liked it that way. When their paths crossed, there would be no questions asked about the reason why the other was there and they would travel together for a bit. More than often, they'd camp outside and with the years, Jaskier started losing his habit of making himself wake up at the first rays of sun in the morning – Geralt's boot nudging his side would do the trick. He didn't need to force things anymore, didn't need to cradle the idea of them being almost friends. He didn't care about the witcher said anymore and called their relationship whatever he wanted to call it – or, well maybe just not in front of said witcher._

_But sometimes, he would be woken up in the morning by an early breeze, and in a sick way, the lack of boot nudging his side would feel like a punishment, as if he had gotten too comfortable. Maybe he still had to force things a little. Maybe considering himself his friend had been one too many steps towards the witcher. Shivering, he'd sit up and his eyebrows would furrow into a glare when his eyes landed upon the soot of a burnt out fire. The bard would ignore the knots in his stomach and huff at the empty space across the darkened logs. Then, before his mood could start to drop, he'd stretch, get up, grab his lute and move on. He was used to it._

_. . ._

As expected, the roars and noises of swords crashing didn't last for more than a few minutes after Jaskier sat down, easing the frustration churning in his gut. Even if he had left as soon as he had woken up, he would've barely caught sight of the last man falling. For once, Jaskier was able to enjoy the feeling of having made the right decision, soothing his nerves. The bard expectantly shot one look towards Bast, but that one was already staring at him, his ears probably having picked up on the lack of noises coming from the cave. Slinging his lute case back on his shoulder, Jaskier got up again and headed towards the narrowed path, much slower this time.

On their way, they encountered the dwarves, happily backtracking with dragon's teeth held proudly between their fingers, holding it before their eyes as they carelessly strode the path without looking ahead, as if they had just been gifted it. They slowed down to greet him, and Jaskier couldn't help but feel the tiniest smile pulling at the corner of his lips when he saw Yarpen narrowing his eyes at Bast, seemingly still bitter over the looks the beast had given his food the night before. “Ya missed the whole battle, bard. Not gonna have a whole lot to put in your songs, will ya?” Jagard quipped at him, shooting a side-glare towards one of his friends when that one went to touch the tooth he was holding.

“Trust me, I'm surprised as well, if not you I thought at least Borch would wake me.” Jaskier saw one of Yarpen's friends reaching out a hand towards Bast, who bared his teeth at the man in response. He placed his hand on Bast's flank as he swiftly put himself between the creature and the group. “Would you mind filling me in?”

“Ah, Borch wasn't 'bout to wake you, he was the first one gone,” Jagard remarked, side-stepping past Jaskier on the narrow path. “Him and his two warriors women, all gone in the morning, went to the cave before us.”

“What?” The bard's eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he turned around to look at him. “Why?”

Without even shooting him a glance over his shoulder, the man shrugged, replying that Borch had asked for no questions and that he'd have to ask his witcher. Jaskier was about to retort that Geralt wasn't, in fact, “his” witcher, when Yarpen interrupted him, catching his attention by abruptly patting his back as he walked past him. “Ya coming with us, boy?”

Jaskier's eyes flickered to the man's friends already leaving, knowing Yarpen would catch up with them, and for the briefest moment, hesitation settled within his heart. Then, his conscience caught up with him and he knew it was never an option. He had followed Geralt through hell and back, he was surely not about to leave him on a simple disagreement, despite how much of a euphemism it was to call it that. With a half-hearted smile, Jaskier shook his head, thanking Yarpen as he told him that he would go to Geralt, maybe get the story from him.

“Suit yourself,” Yarpen shrugged, before hastily leaving to catch up with the rest of the group.

Jaskier quickly regretted his decision when he encountered the bloodied bodies lying before the cave. A real massacre. Bast didn't seem to mind and happily kept on striding across the path, following the voices that came from a place past the cave, but Jaskier couldn't help himself but freeze for a moment at the sight of the dead bodies. He flinched when his glance landed onto Eyck among them, and diverted his stare, unable to look at the cut off head any longer. With a quicker pace than before, Jaskier stalked past the cave as he went after Bast, only to run into Borch. The man was backtracking, leaving behind Geralt, stiffly standing by the edge of the cliff. He arched an eyebrow at the sight of Jaskier, apparently not expecting to see him here, and patted his shoulder as he walked past him, weirdly apologetic.

The bard's eyebrows furrowed, wondering what he had just missed. There was only one way to find out, and, more nervous than he usually was, he stepped forward, waiting for the witcher to notice his presence. The man had his back turned to him, but Jaskier knew he was aware of the brunet waiting behind him. He was always aware of everything.

“Where were you?” Geralt's gruff voice suddenly rose up as the man turned around, his stern gaze landing upon the brunet.

The question was sudden and Jaskier had no idea what to answer for a second.

“Bast was scared.”

On a second thought, he could've probably come up with a better reply.

Geralt scoffed and shook his head, looking down with a disbelieving smile on his face, and what could have been wholesome was ruined by the bitterness dripping from his sneer. He stalked past Jaskier, without any question, without sparing him another glance, expecting him to follow. Because that was what he did. Jaskier followed, he trailed after him, he sang for him, devoted his life to him, tore his heart in half for him – he was his acquaintance, after all. With his mouth sealed and his insides twisting, Jaskier turned around to drag his gaze back on Geralt's retreating form. A chill breeze ruffled his hair, silence settled between them, and the bard suddenly felt so, so cold.

“Did you know I used to believe in destiny?”

The words spilled out of his lips before he could stop them, but Jaskier found out that he didn't mind that much, completely numbed by the cold. Something in his tone must have given away the turmoil twisting his guts, because Geralt stopped dead in his track upon hearing his words. Sure, his question was sudden and impromptu, but that was to be expected from Jaskier. He couldn't handle silence and often found himself blurting out the strangest questions during the day as a desperate attempt to fill the blanks. No, what was worrying was the quiet, imperceptible trembling under his voice, all the pent-up anger hiding behind his pretended casualness, the straining of his vocal chords from the frustrated scream he had bottled up for days.

He was tempted to step closer, but chose to stand still, his muscles too stiff. “I believed in intertwined lives, the comfort of knowing that people who are meant to find each other again will...” he rambled on before coming to a halt, looking up to look at the witcher's back. He seemed tensed. He should be. “Horse shit.”

Geralt turned around, and the frown on his face was completely foreign to Jaskier. He wasn't angry, he wasn't annoyed, nor confused – just waiting.

“For years, our paths have crossed again and again, and never once did I doubt that it was destiny's work. Each time we saw each other again, I'd drop everything to follow you, because I wanted to believe in destiny – I wanted to believe something was there.” His voice was starting to shake, but he blamed it on the freezing wind tousling his hair, convinced that if he stopped talking his teeth would start chattering. There was a stinging sensation in his hands, the brunet looked down at his nails digging into the tender skin of his palms. “I spent all of those years chasing after you and I never even realized how pointless it is to try to please someone who doesn't have anything to offer back.”

He kept his gaze down, didn't look up again to meet the almost unnoticeable hurt in Geralt's eyes, the concealed flinch on his features.

“You will never have anything to offer to anyone else than Yennefer,” he tried to swallow down the bitterness that sat in the back of his throat, threatening to rise. “And I wasted so many years, pleased by every glance, every word you'd spare me. All these years, I spent them trying to force the idea that our lives were interwined and we were meant to--” he caught himself up, frowned, found other words. “Meant to share something. Anything.” The desperation in his voice was palpable and he would've been better at hiding it if he wasn't so much of a poet, constantly in touch with his emotions. He had looked for that desperation years ago while trying to write ballads. He couldn't help but resent how now this same desperation burned his throat. “In the end, it's all my fault. You never believed in destiny, and neither should I have.”

“Jaskier.”

Not a warning, nor a shout, nor a growl – foreign.

“I woke up alone, this morning. Everything around me was silent. Hours before, I bared my fucking soul to you, offered you everything I could, desiring nothing more than recognition – and I woke up alone. And god it felt cruelly familiar,” his humorless laugh cooled the atmosphere even more, his body grew stiffer. “Everyday, every single day I spent with you left me cold and aching. And no matter what I do, this will never change.” He shook his head, looked away before dragging his gaze back towards Geralt, not done, incapable of stopping the words from pouring out of his lips. “Do you even know why I really wanted to go first on that cliff? Where all those surges of bravery come from?”

“I wanted to be good enough, Geralt. Good enough for you.” His smile was cold, bitter, cutting. For a cruel second, he hoped he was hurting the witcher as much as that one had torn him apart; but reason quickly took over and his lips flattened regretfully, his cold anger turning into resignation. He didn't want to hurt Geralt, he had never wanted to and thinking it was what would help his aching was selfish and stupid. “I'm tired of reaching out, I'm tired of pulling on that rope.”

A lump lodged in his throat, he bit his lips, pushed his down. “Half of my life went by, Geralt, and look at me – I have absolutely nothing.” A beat of silence followed his strained voice. Geralt stayed mute and sadly it was what the musician had expected. “And yet I'd still be willing to follow you until the end of the world as if nothing had happened,” he ended quietly, incapable of hiding the shakiness of his words anymore.

He felt tears welling up in his eyes, and kept himself from blinking, refusing to let it drop from his eyelashes in front of Geralt. He looked up. The silver-haired man had his jaw clenched, his eyes slightly widened, not just taken aback – appalled. He had never expected this, how could he? He had pushed and pushed and never once had he realized that this would lead to this very moment, this silent, cold moment where he had to stare back at Jaskier's brimming eyes, incapable of thinking of anything to say that would even just start to fix the situation. There was nothing he could say, he was deeply aware of it.

Even the bard knew that no words from the witcher could help. The thrumming of his heart could easily tell him that he was beyond salvaging. And yet, Geralt's silence riled him up. All of these emotions had been building up inside of him for so long and he felt like he was about to implode and despite all of that, Geralt dared to stay so composed before him, unreadable and always so persistently mute. And as he bit into his lower lip until drawing blood, Jaskier felt that earlier desire coming back ; this selfish, dark desire to hurt in return, to get rid of the pain by sharing it.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to never make our paths cross ever again.”

Jaskier didn't spare him one last glance as he left, cowardice following the selfishness, refusing to face the hurt he had just inflicted. Younger, he would've thought that no words he uttered would ever be able to do as much as make the witcher flinch, but now he knew better. The brunet knew better, and he had absolutely no excuses for what he had just said because he was aware witchers had feelings, but it was about time Geralt was reminded that bards did as well, and Jaskier couldn't find it in himself to regret his words. He heard a footstep behind him, wondered for a brief instant if Geralt would try to stop him, but then there was a snarl, and then Bast was the only one behind him.

The way back towards the camp felt quicker than it had before, and Jaskier kept on walking, refusing to stop, refusing to stay within reach. He kept on going, staggering every now and then, found another path and kept going deeper and deeper into a place he didn't know, his brain just screaming at him to get away as tears started rolling down his cheeks. He kept hiking through the mountains, echoes of the tale he had so fervently recounted the night before burdening his mind.

_she felt honoured by it, and showed him in turn so much favour that he, who sought nothing better than this, was well contented_

And now, every single word laced with annoyance ever thrown his way by the witcher occupied his thoughts, and Jaskier suddenly couldn't believe how many years he had spent gratefully accepting these bits of attention, bits of attention often disguised as grunts and half smiles. Bitter thoughts swirled around in his head as he stomped across the uneven path, still followed by Bast; until his legs started weakening and he was forced to slow down. And as he slowed down, his breathing got steadier, his vision clearer, and when his thoughts had finally quietened, he remembered.

He remembered the cold.

_. . ._

_When it happened to him again, Jaskier had just ceased pushing boundaries._

_They had known each other for a big chunk of the bard's life now, and most of the time he felt like he had known the witcher for longer than he hadn't. The rope tying them had loosened a little and they would part ways and reunite more easily than before. People asked him questions about the witcher and his answers were shorter than they used to be, his voice not vibrating with the same thrill anymore. Sometimes, after a contract, Jaskier found himself being the one packing up first, gladly offering the witcher some breakfast before going on his own way. It felt easier that way. He had stopped forcing things more and more each year, slowly letting go. Whilst his eagerness of travelling with the witcher had previously made him care less lightly than he usually did; he had slowly fallen back into his old habits, and their relationship had shifted into a casual acquaintance – probably what the witcher wanted it to be in the first place._

_But then, one morning following a long night of tossing and turning under the thinnest blanket to exist in the middle of a clearing, Jaskier woke up feeling way more rested than he had expected to, his thoughts fuzzy and his entire body comfortably numb. He blinked, yawned, tried to roll onto his back and finally noticed the weight on his body. Furrowing his eyebrows, the bard made the effort of sticking his hand out from under the thin cover and right into the cold, and felt a foreign, rough material under his fingers. His frown deepened and when he finally craned his neck to take a look at the strange blanket, his gaze fell onto Geralt's cloak. With a gaping mouth, he flickered his eyes to the place across the fire and saw that the spot was empty, but the bedroll was still there. With a contend sigh, Jaskier pulled the cloak tighter around his shoulders and lied on his side, happily drifting back into sleep. There was no moving on this time, he'd stay here until he felt the boot nudging his side and would probably never be first to leave again._

_. . ._

He remembered the silence.

_. . ._

“ _It's fine, you can go.” He felt his knees wobble underneath his weight and carefully kneeled down, as if it had been out of solemnity and not weakness. “I'll catch up with you, God knows how good I am at making our paths cross.” His words fell flat, lacking the usual mischief that should've laced his tone._

_There were no footsteps following his request, but Jaskier paid no mind to it, his mind solely focused on the empty house before him. Silence fell upon them as soon as he closed his mouth, and it almost felt eerie in this place – he had never known his house other than filled with music and voices. Far from the village, he had been able to make the walls tremble with as much noises as he wanted during his early years. His parents had never berated him, they appreciated the sound, appreciated the company, they loved their son more than anything else and would've never done anything that kept him from being happy. That's why they opened the door instead of closing it when he started having bigger dreams, dreams too ambitious for this place. They were farmers, they led a simple life, all they wanted was to see their son lead the life he wanted. Or at least, it was what they said. Jaskier knew they lied when they told him to go, he knew they wanted him to stay, he heard the cries behind closed doors after the day he had expressed his wish to leave. If they had known what would happen, maybe they wouldn't have let him put his hands on his mother's lute._

_If he had known, maybe he would've come back once in a while._

_The more Jaskier waited for the tears to come, the harder it became to ignore the aching of his heart, like a stomach that kept lurching harder and harder despite the lack of content, twisting and turning until its emptiness became unbearable to the owner. He had never come back. He had never made the effort of leaving his lute aside to visit his hometown, and now he couldn't even properly mourn them, he was incapable of shedding a single tear for the people who had taken care of him for most of his life._

_Jaskier bit his lower lip, squinted his eyes shut, tried to calm the blizzard going on inside his mind, to picture anything that would make him focus, but nothing came to him. It was as if he had forgotten what his family looked like, and his stomach just kept on twisting as he tortured his own mind. Then, in the middle of this brewing storm slowly building up inside of him, making his hands shake in despair; a hand landed on his shoulder as someone came to kneel beside him. The brunet could feel Geralt's burning eyes on him, but kept his head low, the idea of showing himself in such a low place making him uncomfortable. With tender cautiousness, Geralt grabbed his clenched fist and uncurled his stiff fingers to place something cold in the palm of his hand. When he looked down, Jaskier's gaze landed upon a medallion. Geralt's medallion. The one that scarcely left its owner's neck, except during some rare moments, moments where the man needed to think, to breathe, to clear of his head. It had been the object the man had held in his closed fist when the witcher had stayed frustratingly mute for hours to the great displeasure of the talkative bard, so uncomfortable with silence._

_The bard tried to peer at the witcher kneeling beside him, but that one wasn't looking at him anymore, his head hanging low, his face unreadable – meditating. The brunet's eyebrows knitted as a weak smile pulled at the corner of his lips, understanding the man's intent. He was teaching him silence. Jaskier dragged his gaze back on the necklace and stared thoughtfully at it for a few seconds, before his trembling hands closed around it, tightly clenching his fingers around it until he felt the metal painfully digging into his palm. He inhaled deeply for a few seconds, held his breath and exhaled as he uncurled his fingers from the medallion. Then, his shaky thumb gently began brushing the metal and his gaze didn't leave the beam of light reflecting on it until his heart had stopped thrumming within his chest. It took him an eternity for his head to finally be cleared from the buzzing sound. All the thoughts rushing through his head had vanished, and he was left with a soothing, almost blissful silence. And yet, his eyes, still fixated on that same medallion, remained dry._

_The silence lasted and lasted, but Geralt stayed quiet, patiently waiting. And when a stray tear finally dropped from Jaskier's eyelashes, a hand came to rest on his shoulder and the bard completely crumbled under the touch. His hands clenched around the medallion again and the stray tear was quickly followed by dozens of others, trickling down his cheeks to end their course onto the back of his fists. He stayed there for almost an hour, numbly staring at the necklace between his hands as tears prickled his eyes, and yet the hand never left his shoulder. Geralt remained by his side the whole time. Unmoving, silent, but most importantly, here ; not decided to leave until his friend had mourned properly._

_He sat there, and quietly mourned with his friend, as if trying to take some weight off his shoulders. As if trying to atone for the all wrong he had ever done him._

_. . ._

When the tale stopped echoing in his mind, when the buzzing sound vanished, leaving nothing behind but a crushing silence; Jaskier sat down, and all the bard could do for a moment was stare at his shaking fingers, as tears freely flowed down his cheeks.

And he, who without the shadow of a doubt had considered himself the gentleman of Provence for so long, cried the tears the lady had once wept, echoing the lamentations of someone who had concealed for too long, and overlooked the signs of a love full of virtue and good intent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, I'm sorry it took me so long to post it, I was kinda crawling under work and couldn't find time to properly write it. Thanks to the people who still left some reviews during my pause, it really motivated me to start writing again x


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